The Chevalier Read online

  La Pompadour is examining him closely with her ever-shifting eyes. “Not easy. I must say you’re a good looking man.”

  “Reflections from your glory, Marquise.” Guerchy unbends a little at her praise and allows his rugged face to glow with pride at his immediate riposte.

  Her lips part in a thin smile. She is by now immune to such flattery. “Tell me, do people ever take you for an Anglo-Saxon?”

  “Many remarked on this during the wars in Germany,” confesses Guerchy. “Before the battle of Fontenoy, I was able to slip through the lines of the English Army and mingle in their ranks.”

  “Did you hear anything of value?” Stainville enquires.

  “Alas, my comprehension of English does not match my appearance.” Guerchy rubs his well-chiselled jaw. “I soon returned, with only troop movements to report.”

  The Marquise waves such minor shortcomings aside. “Nevertheless you were rather a hero, we understand?”

  “I had the great honour to serve my country and the good fortune to have some small successes on the battlefield, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Indeed, most admirable.” She nods, dreaming of gallantry.

  Stainville is gazing outside at a clump of trees in verdant parkland sloping down towards the Seine. “You’ve been at your level some years now, General Guerchy?”

  “Seven.” Guerchy’s face hardens again at the injustice. “And it’s still Lieutenant-General.”

  “Since the end of the last war, in fact.” Stainville’s eyes return to his notes.

  “Peacetime offers fewer opportunities for advancement,” Guerchy agrees.

  “That is absolutely true.” Now Stainville’s focus swings up to the lush decorations on the ceiling, coming back down to rest on Guerchy. “And are you fulfilled?”

  “I don’t complain.”

  “But you’d like to be a full General, perhaps a Field Marshal one day? Maybe even Minister of War?”

  “I’m always willing to serve my country, as I told the Marquise.”

  La Pompadour smiles back at him. “The point is, a new war may create vacancies.”

  “And recommendations to fill them start in these offices,” adds Stainville.

  “I see.” Although, according to his puzzled frown, Guerchy’s not sure that he does.

  “Any help given now…” Stainville’s words drift off into an uncharted future.

  Guerchy stirs and coughs uneasily. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Escort a young governess, who’s setting off for Russia.”

  “Scarcely a senior officer’s work.” Guerchy’s lip curls with a little flicker of scorn.

  “She’s bound for St Petersburg – to visit the Court of the Tsarina, the Empress of all the Russias. There will be compensations, generous expenses.”

  “That could put a different stamp on the matter.”

  “She needs a man of quality to guide her.” Madame de Pompadour leans forward across the desk, brushes his hand with her fan. “You’d command undying respect. From France – and especially from me.”

  There’s a long pause. Her green eyes work their magic on his greed.

  “Very well. I might be able to undertake it.”

  She leans back in her chair, manoeuvring the gilded fan to create a soft wind on her face. “There’s one other small thing. Our official envoys are banned from Empress Elizabeth’s court. You must travel in disguise.”

  Stainville hands Guerchy the bundle of papers. “You will be Lord Douglas. Here’s your life history. You were a follower of Charles Edward Stuart in his attempt to take back the crown of England and Scotland ten years ago. Now you’re an engineer on your way to begin a project in Bohemia.”

  “I know nothing of engineering!”

  La Pompadour puts her finger to her lips. “You won’t have to learn much. The next war is coming – Field Marshal.”

  Guerchy is at once lost in daydreams about the baton, robes and prestige he would gain. He considers a while and then rises, stretching to his full height.

  “I won’t let you down, Marquise.”

  * * *

  I try to suppress a shudder at the thoughts of death raised by the picture. The Comtesse d’Ons-en-Bray’s maid is staring at me as I linger in the doorway. I may need help outside yet I do not feel that I can bring her into my confidence. She would be sure to tell her mistress and, besides, I am no longer convinced my fears are well-founded. But there is a strange sensation in my bones that will not go away.

  I leave the shelter of the doorway and cross the courtyard. There is a man’s dark outline by the gates, I’m sure. I begin to climb my gloomy stairwell and pause halfway to my apartment. I swear I can hear the lightest of footfalls at the bottom of the stairs. I remain, frozen to the spot. Nothing is audible except the sound of raindrops dripping from my clothes onto the stone. I resume my slow ascent.

  But is that another step that I can hear below? I cannot tell. I move on as noiselessly as I can. Just an occasional squelch. Heart racing, I reach my apartment. There can be little doubt: someone, something is coming nearer. A presence is oozing up the stairs. I catch my breath. The hairs are rising on my arms. I fumble for my keys. The lock, never easy, has become impossible. I must get in.

  I feel a heavy gloved hand on my shoulder.

  “Are you the Chevalier d’Éon?”

  Chapter Eight

  The Château

  The dampened hand stays on my shoulder. I can hardly breathe. The stairwell grows ever chillier, more oppressive. My pursuer waits for my reply. At last my voice returns: “Who wants to know?”

  “This is for you, Chevalier.” Taking my question as an admission of my status, the shadow thrusts a sealed note at me. He is swathed in a long black cloak and muffler, the obverse of a ghost, as night to day. His cloak is dripping less than mine: it seems to absorb water. I now unlock the door with relative ease and sink into my alcove, removing my sodden coat and boots. The messenger stays standing in the doorway, looming over me.

  I break the seal, one I know well. It concerns my mother. Françoise is ill, says my godfather, she has been so for some time and now has taken a turn for the worse. Can I visit her without delay?

  “Will you wait for a reply?”

  The dark spectre grunts in affirmation.

  Any lingering resentments that I feel towards my mother vanish. Faced with losing her, I can forgive her everything. But there is no time for me to go to Tonnerre. I find my implements and write in haste:

  My dearest Mother,

  Although I very much wish to return to you, I fear that a most secret mission in the service of France will take me away from these fields and cities for a while. I will come to you as soon as I can. You know that only matters of the utmost importance could keep me from your side. Remember that I rode again to Dijon? When there, I kissed the feet of the Black Virgin once more, for you and for us all. I will pray for your recovery. Send word of it to me here.

  Your loving son,

  Charles

  Scribbling a few words to her protector and adding my own seal, I pass the folded page at once to the messenger. Two coins follow: I want him around me not a moment longer than necessary. He clatters back down the stone stairs. No difficulty in hearing him now.

  The rain is easing while I wash and change, and stops as I walk out. The Paris streets and the surrounding air seem cleansed. I pick over a frugal early dinner of undercooked fowl at a tavern by the church of Saint Germain, whose tables I trust I’ll never lean my elbows on again. I call upon my landlady as soon as I return.

  Though she is back from her rare foray into society, Madame d’Ons-en-Bray keeps me waiting in her hall for several minutes. Darkness is falling outside the window as I enter her sitting room: I watch the purple skies until the maid withdraws. A sour mix of smells hangs in the air. Only one candle glows. Through the gloom I see my landlady’s once mobile face has collapsed into petulance. Any illusion of a tranquil atmosphere evaporates.
r />   “What’s so important that you have to come to me this late?” She toys with a large pack of cards.

  “Madame, you know how much I value the friendship of your family and the hospitality you have extended to me.”

  “Pray get to the point. I am not as young as I was.”

  “We all suffer from the same malady.” I deduce she did not enjoy her evening’s break from her routine. “However, my purpose is to tell you that I will no longer be trespassing upon your time and property from next Friday.”

  “You’ve found superior lodgings?” She senses my discomposure. “Or are they just cheaper ones?”

  “Neither, Madame. I shall be travelling, most probably beyond the boundaries of France.”

  There is a long silence between us, punctuated only by the ticking of her large old Comtoise clock, slightly off key on the downbeat.

  She fixes her tired, watery eyes upon me. “I feel bound, in the absence of my late husband, to offer you some advice. Whether or not this is connected to the strange comings and goings around your apartments I do not know, but I suspect that it is. Whatever the truth of the matter, I am compelled to observe that you are entering circles far beyond your understanding. Do you have any idea when you might return?”

  “My employer has not yet seen fit to enlighten me.”

  She puts down the cards and adjusts a lace cloth upon her lap. “And who might that employer be?”

  “I regret I am unable to inform you.”

  “It seems to me there is rather too much about this voyage that is clandestine. Indeed, my earlier reading of the pack leaves me no wiser. Had you taken me into your confidence, I might have been able to offer to hold your rooms for you, without the need for payment of rent. As it is, you will realise that I have no option but to offer them upon the market at normal terms. You will most probably return, if so happy an eventuality should come to pass, to find them taken. There is no bolt-hole here, sir.”

  “I understand, Madame. I ask only one favour.”

  “What is that?”

  “Will you please hold letters and some clothing for me while I’m gone?”

  She considers for a moment. “I will instruct my maid to set aside a small space for your effects. Once that is full…”

  Her hand extends in valediction. A quaking smile plays on her lips, and fast retreats. Our interview is ended. I quit her rooms and hasten to make one last crucial call before my departure.

  * * *

  The road is clear on the ride from Paris, fields still fresh and gleaming from the recent rain. Shaken by my experience of the afternoon, I bring my horse to a halt at every crossroads. While my mount’s snorts subside, I stay quiet to listen. I hear nothing, but the absence of any sound does little to assuage my fears. From now on, I know I will suspect pursuit through all my days.

  Some minutes beyond midnight I enter the stone gates of Nangis. My horse rattles to a stop on the cobbles: a small side door opens in the lodge at this entrance to the château. A comely, ruddy-faced young woman, clad in simple peasant skirts, runs out to meet me. “This way, please, Monsieur Charles.”

  “And who are you, pray?”

  She ushers me towards the gatehouse. “Sir, I am Violette, the personal maid to my lady, Madame de Courcelles.”

  “Excellent. Is she expecting me?”

  “Sshh, Monsieur, even the insects in the walls here are spies.” She slides into the small lodge through the half-open door.

  I follow in her wake. “What on earth is the matter?” Nevertheless I drop my voice as I survey my surroundings. We are in a dark front parlour, lit by a single flame. “Surely the Comte and Comtesse are in Paris?”

  “Yes, but they have left many here who would be only too happy to inform on my mistress.” The narrow mullioned windows, I am glad to see, are shuttered tight.

  “You presume rather too much about us, Violette.”

  “Sir, I presume nothing. I only work out how things are from what she tells me.”

  “Which is, exactly?” I cannot prevent a slight catch from entering my voice – these ladies keep nothing from their maids.

  She ticks off her instructions on her fingers. “That I am to prepare the foremost items in her wardrobe, whilst bringing out some of her, shall we say, more provincial and old-fashioned dresses from their hiding places. Meanwhile, we are to take a trip to Paris next week to visit the couturiers and milliners she favours.”

  Perhaps Marie has been discreet after all. “And what do you understand to be my rôle in all this?”

  “Why, sir, I cannot say. But you are to remain here with me in the gatehouse until my mistress comes. If anyone sees you and questions either of us, then you are visiting me for a secret assignation.” Violette strokes her long brown hair with winsome grace. She reminds me of those young girls I grew up with in Tonnerre.

  “But Violette, do you not have a sweetheart of your own?”

  “Well, God be praised, I do, but he has gone to the city with his master. Besides, what his eyes cannot see…”

  Her impudence is boundless, although her form is not unfetching. But I am beyond temptation. “Then I will take the sound advice you and your mistress have given me, and stay here quiet in your company until she joins us.” I settle into the seat by the shuttered window.

  * * *

  The town bells chime three as I lie back to rest myself on Marie’s limbs. A full moon is shining on a small lake in the château grounds. Wisps of mist drift over the wood; from deep within it comes the bark of a deer. In a sheltered hollow beside the lake, she sits on a cloth with her back against a tree trunk, cradling my head in her lap. For the first time since we have been acquainted, I’m dressed in men’s clothes, my favourite suit of light brown velvet, and yet somehow I feel odd, almost uncomfortable. To distract myself, I watch a swan floating beyond the reeds.

  Marie follows my gaze. “This is a night I’ll always remember, Charles.”

  “Yes.” I turn my eyes heavenward to feast on her, sheathed in a flowing mauve dress edged in white. I feel like the swan, calm on the surface, in turmoil beneath.

  She looks down upon me, her face moonlit. “Must you go so soon?”

  “There’s no time to waste. Everyone says war is coming.”

  She nods, hesitates, and whispers in an even softer tone. “I’ll be lost without you.”

  “It won’t be easy for me either.” Another swan glides into view.

  “Then – why are you doing this?”

  I sit up, spin round, and cup her chin with my right hand to impress her with my intent. “You know why I have to go. It’s my chance to make my name – become a marquis, or a duke perhaps, and – who knows? – it might even make me rich.” I’m babbling, such is my state of tension.

  “You don’t care about that.” She brushes my hand away.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I do. Besides, you’ve been urging me on.”

  A little sigh. “I know. But I’ve changed my mind.”

  “How can you? Don’t you think it’s a little late for that now? I’m committed.”

  “It’s never too late. I’ve had some most disturbing dreams about your escapade. Besides, what you’ve told me, all that talk of titles, is not the real reason for your going.”

  “How can you say that?” I grasp her wrist. Her presumption astonishes me, although I admire the confidence with which she expresses her opinion. However often it may change.

  “Because I understand you.”

  “You only know one side of me.”

  She inclines her head in acknowledgement. “You have to admit it’s an unusual one.”

  “I suppose so.” I release her from my grip.

  “What happened? Can you tell me?” She draws up her knees, and clasps them together with her hands in a sudden girlish gesture.

  “You really want to know?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You won’t dismiss me?”

  She looks over the lake at the dark an
d brooding outline of the château. “You’re still here…”

  I pause for a long while, uncertain where to begin. There is a little splash as a frog dives into the lake from its perch upon the lilies. Beyond, the swans are come together, their forms momentarily describing a perfect shape of a heart.

  “It’s a compulsion, I suppose. Let me explain. Have you ever wanted to be someone else, Marie? Not for a day, not like an actor strolling about the stage, but to really live as them, get inside their skin, and occupy their mind?”

  “Sometimes I wish I were the Marquise de Pompadour. She has such taste, such patronage, such power.”

  “That’s mere envy,” I say. “Everyone feels that from time to time. I mean, to exist as another person, one you might have been but for… you know?”

  “An accident of birth?”

  “Precisely.”

  She thinks for a moment. A cloud hides the moon and a breath of cold wind blows the mist further across the waters. “No, never.”

  “Well, I want that all the time.”

  “So bright, yet so dissatisfied. Why waste your wit?”

  “But it’s the engine of my wit that makes me restless!” I cry out. “Don’t you see? I have to find new sensations. One life’s not enough.”

  She signs at me to hush my voice. “That may be as well. You must beware. Looking as pretty as this, you’re bound to turn a few heads. Not just female heads. Male heads, many males, whatever costume you’re in. Don’t shy away; you know it’s true. Even discovering your real identity might not stop these admirers.”

  I leap to my feet, boots squelching in the marshy sedge. “Let them think what they want.” I suppose I am aware of such distasteful lusts, after my observation of the proclivities of certain men at the Opéra, but I do not wish to involve myself.

  “It’s a dangerous game.”

  “The game’s half the fun. I’m a match for any of these fools lumbering around Paris. I can’t imagine Russians will be nearly so sophisticated.”

  She rises, using the tree trunk as a lever, and grips my shoulders forcefully. “It’s the backward people who’ll fear you most – so, with them, you must be the most careful.”