The Chevalier Read online

  “A risk I’ll have to take.”

  Her eyes penetrate mine, seem to bore into my soul. “You’re set on it: I’ll say no more.” Her hands fall limp by her side. “But you haven’t told me why.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “So you thought I’d forget? Think again. Why are you putting yourself in danger? What do you really want from this?”

  I sit down, before lying back on the damp turf, the smell of fresh cut grass in my nostrils, my arms outstretched, my eyes staring straight into a misty, now starless sky.

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  Her face flies into my line of sight, as though it were a wondrous comet. “Of course.”

  “Promise?”

  “On my husband’s grave.” A heron croaks in solemn accord.

  “To reclaim my father’s château and his lands.”

  “Did you lose them, Charles? Some bet?”

  “Worse. When he died, his so-called friends in the Dijon Parlement questioned his will. As a lawyer, I saw there were no grounds to do so. But our petition was turned down. I suspect they didn’t even read it.”

  “So who’s living there now?”

  “No one. My mother’s jammed into a tiny apartment in my godfather’s house nearby. The château’s empty till I prove our case to Parlement – or the King.”

  She looks into my eyes with unfeigned sympathy, then smiles at me, triumphant.

  “You see, I said I understood you. You really do have a mission.”

  We embrace with a chaste yet lingering kiss. I shudder as a sharp frisson runs up my backbone. As we walk back towards the gatehouse, I look across the lake. The swans are gliding off in opposite directions.

  * * *

  To the backdrop of the breaking dawn, I escort the carriage containing Marie’s provincial wardrobe on the road to Paris. When I examine the contents once more in the harsh light of day, I find that every dress is pristine, that all the accoutrements are very fine; in short, most unsuitable for travelling. To think these were my Marie’s cast-offs… I have to gird myself for another sortie into the dangers of the fashionable universe. Donning my sister’s robe of mourning black, I take myself to the shops along the Rue Saint Honoré. Inevitably, I find myself drawn to Au Trait Galant.

  Whenever I have paced this street beforehand I have hung in furtive isolation outside these windows, imagining the feel of the satin, sensing the caress of the underskirts against my skin. Now I summon all my courage and enter the doors of this unknown yet long seductive world.

  My resolution is soon tested. A pretty, dark-haired young woman, dressed in the height of fashionable light blue, approaches me. She has that curious mixture of servility and arrogance that defines those who administer to public taste.

  “What will it be today, Ma…?”

  “Mademoiselle.”

  “Naturally. And my name is Sylvie.”

  “Is Mademoiselle Pagelle available?”

  “Not this afternoon.” A condescending smile. “She is visiting a very important client. May I help?”

  “I am minded to travel and wish to enlarge my trousseau.”

  Sylvie blinks: she seems to think the connection between this statement and my black weeds too remote. “Have you seen anything you wish to try on?”

  “Indeed.” I point to a grey dress in the display which has caught my eye, partly due to its lack of show, but mainly to its being the least expensive I have noted. Trembling, I wait as a mouse-like shop girl fusses around in order to bring it to me. Although she tries to hold on to it, I take it from her.

  “Do you not require the services of an assistant?” Sylvie is incredulous.

  “No, thank you.”

  She struggles to repress a sneer. “I assure you, Mademoiselle, that it is usual in this establishment.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But if you wish to make a sale, you will leave me to be the judge of my own appearance.”

  “And is there nothing else you want to try?” She waves her assistant away.

  “I will give the matter my consideration.”

  Sylvie’s lips offer a thin, insincere smile as she escorts me to the most cramped disrobing room that she can find. I wait a clear minute after her departure before putting on the dress, which gives me the exact look of studiousness I am attempting to cultivate. I return the dress to my inquisitor and add several hats, ribbons and shawls of plain, anonymous material, contenting myself with a bodice tied by intricate strings and bows to slake my thirst for frippery.

  Quizzically, Sylvie claps her hands for her accomplice to witness my discomfort as she prepares to test my purse.

  I’m happy to disappoint her. “Please send these items and the bill to the Prince de Conti.” I turn and leave. I’m ready for my new life as a woman.

  Part II

  Woman

  Chapter Nine

  The Journey

  My barouche, laden with dresses now sporting artfully-enhanced bosoms, slews to a halt on the wet stones of the Quai de Conti. I pause within, shivering at the prospect of the cold night air, and look up past the tip of the Île de la Cité at a single light. It flickers on high in the Hôtel de Gesvres, a chink in the huge slab of grey lowering across at us from the other side of the Seine. Its reflection merges into the light from the waning moon; they play on the waters. Rain has drenched the day and is still falling hard, huge drops lashing into the river, over and again breaking the patterns of the beams. I feel my eyes being drawn through this veil of showers towards the shimmering light but, as I try to focus, it dies, as though blown away by the wind.

  This is my last chance to flee.

  A nauseous feeling rises in my throat. In the same moment as I struggle to hold down my sickness, the driver jumps down onto the quay, blocking my path away from the river to the south. Meanwhile a tall, craggy-faced figure is watching me from the barge, my escort I presume, a man who might not take well to an escape before our mission has even departed. I must make the best of it.

  The picture of a simple governess in my pale grey dress, I alight from the coach. My parasol cannot cover all my clothing; dampening around the edges, I advance with care across the cobblestones towards the gently swaying barge. All the while, I contemplate my escort and jailer. There’s something about those features seemingly hewn from rock that reminds me of the monuments I’ve been commissioning for the new Place Louis XV.

  I draw closer. Scrutinising his gaunt face, the tiniest flash of recognition passes through my mind – where exactly have I seen him before? He also reacts to me: I observe him screwing up his rugged features in a parody of mental effort. If both of us are responding to the triggers of memory, there must be some substance to it, but it has yet to register with me, and I feel sure at the moment he remembers nothing. His face will undoubtedly relax when he does.

  Further down the barge, a smaller figure dressed in shabbier clothes, who I take to be his servant, is sitting on a huge pile of cases strewn on deck. I am fated to be travelling with sculpted forms. This gargoyle, fallen from Notre-Dame, leers down at me from his adopted fastness in a gross, peculiar manner.

  Still evidently perplexed, his master attempts to smile at me, although a nervous tic turns this into a grimace. I am determined to offer him no response. As I reach the gangplank, he twitches again, describes a semi-circle with his hand and holds it ready for me. Ignoring this trivial courtesy, I sweep past him, checking his reaction out of the corner of my eye. His look of astonishment is most pleasing. I hold my nose in the air, no doubt taken by him as a further insult; in fact I’m trying to ameliorate the overpowering stench of fish that lingers about the barge.

  Confusion vanishes from his well-moulded face; now he frowns in annoyance. Looking up, he catches sight of his servant gazing down on what is passing between us, and sees him grinning at my intended snub. Freed from the necessity to keep up his good manners, my escort vents his spleen.

  “What the devil are you staring at, Monin? Tell that damned
fool to ready us to leave.”

  His accent has the slight rasp of a foreigner, which I take to be that of a Scotchman, although I am so far unacquainted with that race. He climbs back onto the barge, pulling up the gangplank behind him. The goblin answering to the name of Monin nudges another inert figure into action. This must be our bargee, and temporary guide, who has also been gawping at me throughout my embarkation.

  “It’s time,” mutters Monin.

  The bargee grunts in reply and slowly limps away.

  My coachman finishes adding my luggage to the mountainous pile and now finds he has to jump ashore, slipping as he lands on the quay stones. He rights himself and returns to his perch without a backward glance. The horses respond to a flick of the whip. The carriage rolls off. I am on my own amid this strange menagerie of giant and goblin – a sheep among wolves.

  “So you are Lord Douglas, I take it?” I hope my voice betrays no sign of nerves.

  There is a slight delay while my escort assumes a semblance of civilised manners. “Ay, at your service, Mademoiselle.” His arm lunges out again towards me in a most uncourtly flourish, followed by a bow whose creaks are audible.

  However, I see more confusion in those carved lines on his face, and I know now where I have spotted this perplexity and such an ineffective hand before. Of course, if he recognises me, there can only be three possible times when I’ve been dressed like this in public… Yes, he was there at the Opéra lunging after me in vain pursuit, upon that night when all the events that find me here were set in motion. I wish that this superior knowledge might make me content. Instead, it fills me with even more disquiet: such an advantage is fleeting. Come daybreak, he shall be my equal.

  “Will you and your men construct a shelter for me? I am quite sopping.”

  “At once, Mademoiselle. Look to it now, Monin.”

  The bargee returns with a rough canvas awning, shows Monin a simple means of using the cases and this covering to erect a makeshift tent, then leaps with practised ease onto the quay, defying his injured leg, and prepares to cast us adrift.

  I watch the last acts of our departure. The bargee comes aboard, the rope uncoils from the bollard and we glide away from the quay. Just as the current is about to exert its power to carry us downstream, there is a massive jolt: I search around for its cause. A carthorse emerges from the shadows and begins to pull us on the other rope towards the looming edifice of Notre-Dame. One final glance back and I notice another chink of light burning, this on the second floor of the Hôtel de Conti – is the ghost of my mentor taking his leave of me?

  * * *

  In his former mansion’s great bedroom high above the quayside, the real Prince is watching these preparations, his spyglass peeping out from behind a crimson damask curtain as though he were tracking rare birds on the shore of a distant sea. He sees the hesitancy of the young and vulnerable Chevalier, and tenses as he realises once more how completely the fruition of his plans depends on the success of this unknown. He feels a shiver pass through his bones as he senses the froideur between the would-be governess and the towering escort. He holds his breath for all the time it takes to load the governess’s trunks on board. At last he begins to relax. As the carriage departs, clattering on the stones, he smiles. When the barge starts to judder away from the riverbank, he can no longer help himself and bursts into raucous laughter.

  Charlotte moves slowly up behind him. “What’s so amusing?”

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  “No falling in the river? I do so enjoy that. Unless it was our little charge, of course.”

  “Mercifully, no, my dear. All is well.”

  She takes the spyglass from him. “Is that the Lord Douglas aboard?”

  “It must be. Can’t say I’ve met him.”

  “He looks familiar.” She peers more closely but her target turns his face away.

  “Then you are ahead of me. Although, to judge by the accounts of his activities, you should not have been mingling in the same circles.” He laughs again.

  “Don’t be so silly, Louis-François. I just think I recognise him, that’s all. Now, come, let’s leave at once. I don’t feel safe here.”

  “What nonsense – of course I can visit my old home. They haven’t even paid me for it yet.”

  * * *

  Across the river on the upper floor of the Hôtel de Gesvres, the smell of the guttered candlestick is still hanging in the enclosed air of the main bedchamber. The Marquise de Pompadour sits in a frilled pink dress on the green-canopied bed, cool in her demeanour, her coiffed hair stretched above her porcelain features. By the window, Stainville observes events upon the barge through a jewelled telescope.

  “Have they gone yet?” Only the dim moonlight illuminates her on the bed. She slides her legs down till they touch the floor.

  “They’re leaving the wharf now.”

  “Is Conti watching?”

  The telescope swivels upwards to focus higher and further afield. “In secret – he believes. He looks most pleased with himself.”

  “And his strumpet?” She moves slowly across the room.

  “Yes. She’s there as well.”

  “My instincts were right.”

  Stainville turns towards her. “You’re always right, Marquise… Jeanne.”

  She smiles benevolently. “Let’s hope Guerchy’s up to it.”

  “He’s a good soldier.”

  Pompadour sighs. “Indeed.” She holds her hand out for the telescope. “Give me that.”

  He extends the instrument towards her. She reaches further, and brushes her hand on top of his as she takes possession.

  * * *

  Lulled into a deep sleep – to my surprise – by the lapping of the waters on the barge’s hull, I come awake late in the morning. The rain no longer spatters my temporary shelter on the deck, but I make full use of its protection; I only emerge when hunger drives me to reveal myself. The Seine is still slow running, the current sluggish under the early summer sun, as we inch our way upstream past meadows and through overhanging willows at the river’s edge.

  My principal aim is to avoid the company of Lord Douglas and his stunted servant, no easy task when we are all confined to so small a space. Nevertheless I achieve it by the simple expedient of continuous reading, ignoring all questions except those which invite me to partake of our extremely plain refreshment. Bread, cheese and water seem to be the extent of the culinary range on board. I vow to adopt a regimen of retiring most early and rising very late.

  By the next evening, we are passing Montereau – our mighty horse has pulled us up to the bridge where John the Fearless, one of the great Dukes of my land, was killed over three hundred years ago. His murder epitomises the duplicity of the French royal house towards Burgundy, although honesty compels me to admit the Valois were a different strain from the current Bourbons. I shall find out how reliable this latest King Louis is in time.

  Lord Douglas keeps on staring at me, but now there is the hideous glint of recognition in his eyes. Utilising the modesty of my sex, I continue to deflect him, averting my gaze. I concentrate upon reading The History of Louis XIV: the flowing style and well-judged content make it an easy task.

  “Have we not met before, Mademoiselle?”

  “I think not, sir.”

  “Funny, I could swear that we have. Perhaps at a ball?”

  No chance of my helping him here. He’s coming far too close. My scrutiny returns to the ambitions of the Sun King.

  “For God’s sake, woman, you’ve had your nose in that for two full days.”

  I do not look up, and continue to read.

  “What book can be so enthralling?”

  “It’s one by Voltaire.”

  My protector splutters. “No proper Catholic would be seduced by such subversive rubbish.”

  Angered, I touch my choker with its silver cross about my neck but hold my peace.

  “Just as well peasants can’t read if that’s what they churn ou
t,” he gibes.

  Finally, I can muzzle myself no longer. “You wish to keep them in subjection through ignorance, I presume, sir?”

  “As would all right-thinking folk, Mademoiselle.”

  “You are in error. Many disagree. I gather the Russian Empress is an admirer of his – and of all our philosophers.”

  Lord Douglas snorts. “So that’s the excuse.”

  “It’s another reason.” I fold my hands upon the book.

  “She must be one more female innocent, misled onto the path of disorder by sheer narrow-minded wickedness.”

  “On the contrary. Their wisdom is the result of large-minded ideas.”

  He nods with what I’m sure is counterfeit sagacity. “Is it so? In that case, only one thing puzzles me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I can’t understand why their big heads are still attached to their bodies.”

  I cannot bear such ignorance and am about to lose my temper and fling the book at him. Showing great restraint, I desist, but my first, involuntary, movement is noted. Lord Douglas’s face cracks into a victorious smile at the successful goading.

  * * *

  On our fifth day out from Paris we reach the small town of Nogent-sur-Seine, where all possibility for river transport ceases. I say goodbye to our carthorse, of which I have grown inordinately fond, and to the bargee, who is not such a bad fellow. Disembarking into a drab, comfortless carriage, we set off along a stony road for Saint-Dizier. Monin taking the reins, I am now cooped up alone with my guardian. He glowers at me in disagreeable proximity as my book bounces in my hands. At least the clouds soon clear, so sunshine lights our path to Nancy while he snoozes.

  An overnight stay and we pass on down tree-lined avenues towards the border. Finally we cross the Rhine by the bridge at Kehl, just beyond Strasbourg. Apart from a brief voyage into the Netherlands with M. de Savigny, it is the first time I have left France: there seems to be no alteration to my internal system on the other side of the frontier. Despite what I like to believe is my sophistication, the potential changes have been worrying me.