“Dieu, that’s even better than powder,” Sophie said, pinning a jeweled ostrich feather so it curved across the crown of Camille’s head.
The cloth-of-gold dress still lay draped over the trunk’s lid. Again she had the distinct impression that the whispering was coming from the dress. “I suppose I should put it on.”
“Don’t ask me—you’re the magician.”
Camille stripped down to her chemise and pulled the skirts of the cloth-of-gold dress over her hips. The whispering stopped, as if it were waiting for something else to happen.
Sophie shook her head. “Even if it weren’t falling apart, you could never wear that to Versailles.”
Camille spun; the skirts clutched at her feet. “I can’t even walk in it! And it smells like I’ve been sleeping in a fireplace.”
“Try these.” Reverently, Sophie set the embroidered shoes in front of Camille and held out a glass bottle filled with amber liquid. Once the shoes were on her feet—only a little too small—Camille touched the perfume’s stopper to her throat, then to the dress, the scent of orange flowers blooming to mask the stench of smoke.
“That’s better. And now,” she said, taking hold of the clothes brush, “I believe I’m to use this to turn the dress.” But when she ran the brush across her dress, nothing happened. She tried again, sweeping the bristles over the fabric more slowly this time, and still—nothing.
What was it?
With a stab of unease, she realized that it had to do with pain. Or the lack of it. She’d been so pleased with her transformation, she’d forgotten. Taking a deep breath, Camille began to search her memories, traveling underground through dark, cold tunnels. The familiar ache of sadness coursed through her as she saw again Alain’s grimy hand wrenching Sophie’s hair, heard her own head snap against the floor.
Lace, she urged, as she ran the brush along the dress’s neckline. Lace, delicate as moths’ wings.
Nothing.
“Why are you being so stubborn?” Her voice was small. In the mirror, her bone-white face stared at her like a stranger’s.
Maybe she hadn’t imagined it hard enough. Or maybe she had to focus on the fabric itself.
Camille thought of silk the color of the sky when she first saw the balloon. Oyster-shell storm clouds, Lazare in the chariot. As soon as she thought of him—the ultimate impossibility of him—the feeling dissolved into an ache of sadness. Riding the wave of sorrow, she swept the brush from shoulder to neckline: lace frothed along it. She ran the brush down the bodice of her dress, the dress changing as if she were painting the worn fabric with ink made of sky. The hem rose and the skirts swagged up behind like a modern gown. Something like a sigh set the silken skirt rustling, and as the magic crept like searching fingers between the dress and her skin, she sensed its dark might was hers for the taking. She had only to be strong enough to let it in.
Sophie jumped up and down. “You did it! You did it! Now, who will you be? What’s your name?”
Camille’s eye landed on the miniature portrait with its knowing eyes. She remembered the faint scrawl on the back. “Cécile Descharlots—the Baroness de la Fontaine?”
It felt right—a name her ancestors had used.
“Why not?” Sophie bubbled with enthusiasm as she looked Camille up and down. “I can’t believe it! No more freckles, no more hollows in your cheeks, no bruise. And the dress. I couldn’t have designed one better. C’est parfait!”
It was perfect. But as the words were leaving Sophie’s mouth, Camille’s reflection dimmed.
“No!” The lace neckline vanished as if an invisible seamstress were ripping it out, the bronzy gold of the old dress seeping into the blue, the red of her hair flaming beneath the powder. “It’s fading, Sophie! Help me! I don’t know how to make it stay!”
Sophie flung herself at the box and rummaged inside. “Have you used everything?”
In the mirror, shadows rose to gnaw at Camille’s cheeks. She pressed her hands to her face as if she could stop them. “What else is there? What can I do?”
Sophie held up the brooch. “What about this?”
Camille thrust out her hand. It was shaking again.
Tears of frustration pricked at the corners of her eyes. Not now. Not yet. All magic faded, but this was too soon. She didn’t want to go back to the way she was before: starved, worn-out, exhausted Camille. She couldn’t. There was too much at stake. Sophie handed Camille the tear-shaped brooch. Studded with the tiniest shards of diamonds, it glimmered like a real tear.
“Quick, Camille, pin it on!”
Fingers trembling, Camille unclasped the brooch. As she steadied the needle against the fabric of her dress, it wobbled and pierced her finger. Three drops of crimson blood welled up and slipped onto the fabric of her dress.
“Merde!” she swore as she clasped the brooch into place. “I’ve ruined it!”
But the drops of blood disappeared into the dress, as if it had licked them up.
“Look, Camille.” Sophie’s voice quavered. She pointed at the mirror.
Where the blood had spilled, the dress had begun to change again, its stormy blue spreading like a wave, until the fabric and Camille were once more transformed. And when she took a step back from the mirror, the magic held. She ran her hands along the dress’s silky folds, touched her powdered hair. The hollows were gone from her face, the shaking in her hands stilled.
“It was the blood.” Sophie shrank away, her face waxen. “That’s horrible, Camille! The glamoire needs blood.”
The dress was ravenous. Camille could feel its hunger, its desperation to be freed from the box. Did it sense what she was willing to give it in exchange for its help?
Camille pressed her shoulders down and stood straight. The dress responded, the bodice tightening around her like an embrace. It was somehow—pleased. All this time, it was the dress that had been whispering to her, calling her. It had known what she needed. Her new face, the clothes, her steadiness, all of it was armor fashioned especially for her. A new and perfect self.
And, if she was lucky, a new life.
She tossed her head so that the plume in her hair danced. The mirror was clear as if it’d been newly made, all its underwater blurriness gone. The girl she saw reflected in it was as sleek and hard as the diamond brooch she wore. Like her ancestors before her, she would use this dark and creeping magic to go to court, to glitter, to win.
“Dis-moi, Sophie,” she said, admiring the glow of candlelight on silk. “What are a few drops of blood?”
16
Camille was determined to hate it.
The gold, the glass, the impossibly high and lavishly painted ceilings. The carpets, the chandeliers, the mirrors, the windows upon windows upon windows, each one costing a fortune, gleaming spotless in the sun. The posing statues, the miles of parquet, the dancing water in the fountains. The whole gaudy place, crawling with aristocrats who’d willingly step on her if it was to their advantage.
But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Despite her best intentions, it dazzled and seduced her.
She felt its pull as soon as her hired coach rolled to a stop at the edge of the enormous cobbled forecourt of Versailles, the Cour d’Honneur. All around her, coachmen jostled for position in the flood of horses, riders, and people, on foot and in palanquins, streaming through the gilded gates and into the palace. Nobles in their finery as well as commoners in their drab, rented swords at their sides, ambled toward the palace, its every surface beckoning with gold. It was a small, shining, mazy city, where thousands of the grandest nobles lived in imposing apartments or cramped closets, all so they might be near to the king. Louis XVI was an actor upon a stage, and he and Marie Antoinette played their parts for both the aristocrats and the commoners, who could enter the palace’s public rooms at will and watch the king and queen eat or take their exercise in the gardens.
Part of Camille wanted to sneak in, grab something—a costly knickknack, a watch, a necklace—stuff it in her skirt’s hidden
pocket, turn the coach around, and return to Paris. The longer she stayed, the greater the danger of being found out. Who knew what they did to thieves caught in the king’s own palace?
But perched at the very edge of the carriage’s seat, the crowded courtyard ahead, her humming dress in her hands, her fear disappeared. This was it.
The carriage door swung open and a coachman extended a gloved hand to her. She pressed her fingers lightly against his and stepped out, her skirt following behind her like a mermaid’s tail. And as she smoothed the silk of her gown, she felt it crackle against her hands. The wrinkles fell out of the skirts and the bodice snugged closer. The dress offered her its protection, but in exchange, it wanted to go in.
The coachman cleared his throat. “When shall I return, madame?”
A clock above the courtyard pointed its sun-ray hands to three o’clock.
“Eight.” That should be enough time.
The man bowed. “Oui, madame.”
Camille pressed two real livres into his hand. “Don’t be late.”
Leaving the carriage, she joined the crowds funneling toward the entrance. A guard dressed in the white and blue livery of the Bourbon kings ushered the commoners inside, and she would have followed them had it not been for a footman who bowed and opened another, grander door. Instinctively, she swung around to see the fancy aristocrat he was admitting to the palace before she realized: he was opening the door for her.
With a rush of pleasure, she realized she’d done it. She was in.
Smiling to herself, she was ushered by another footman into the Hall of Mirrors. Before her lay an expanse of honey-colored parquet floor so long she couldn’t see the end of it. Gold-framed mirrors on the interior wall spangled the room with light; sun through the windows set the crystals in the chandeliers aflame. Among the gilt busts or by the windows, courtiers stood gossiping in groups of two or three. In their silks of lavender and rose and cream, subtly whitened faces and powdered hair, the aristocrats were another exquisite decoration. The mirrors multiplied their jewels, their clothes, the men’s red-heeled shoes, their swords, and the three-cornered hats crowning their watchful faces until they seemed to number in the thousands.
As the hall pulsed with flirtation and braggadocio, talk of debt and power, hairdressers and lovers and parties, the dress came to life. It trembled against Camille’s skin, as if it yearned for the press of other bodies, for the click of heels on the parquet floors, for the extravagant everything that made Camille’s pulse race. She steeled herself against trusting any of it. She could not let herself forget that under the glamoire, her hands were chafed red and dirt lingered under her fingernails. She could not let herself forget where she had come from just this afternoon: the scraped-bare pantry, the dizzying hunger, and only a few steps away, the running girl on the street a warning of what could come.
Taking a deep breath, she entered the Galerie des Glaces, mingling with the crowd as the courtiers contemplated her, nonchalant. No surprise, no recognition. Doing her best to imitate their disdain and the ladies’ gliding walk, she passed a delegation of copper-skinned men in turbans and long white robes, a gaudily dressed French courtier prancing alongside them. As she made her way down the long room, she looked for a staircase to take her away from the crowds.
“Madame!”
Camille froze. Already? She’d been found out before she’d gotten inside, before she’d had a chance to find a card game?
An older woman approached, a bird’s nest Sophie would have laughed at perched in her powdered hair. “Tell me, how long has it been?”
It’s now or never, Camille told herself, as she faced her.
“Oh,” said the woman, her face quickly brightening from disappointment into politeness, “I thought you were someone else!”
And she was. In the wall of mirrors, Camille spotted her own reflection among the crowd of courtiers. No wonder the noblewoman had been mistaken. In the glass, the bruised, freckled, red-haired girl was gone. In her place stood a lovely and haughty aristocrat, her skin creamy pale, her storm-blue silk dress magnificent, her ruby lips curved just as they should be. Footmen bowed as she passed, men nodding as if they knew her, until she reached the end of the room, where she found an empty staircase and began to climb, not rushing, as if she did it every day.
The hum of the crowd faded as she reached the first floor, where, on the landing, under a set of open windows, Camille stumbled onto a rumpled matelassé quilt. A wicker picnic hamper anchored one corner; scattered across it were small pink-and-green Limoges plates, half-filled wineglasses, a dish piled with blushing strawberries and pastries, a platter of cold chicken. Camille’s stomach rumbled. The candles in the silver candelabra had gone out; among the forks and napkins lay an abandoned fan and a jeweled snuffbox. But there was no sign of the picnickers.
From the next floor, a man’s voice drifted down to her, followed by a woman’s rippling laugh; somewhere nearby, a door snicked closed.
Statue-still, her muscles aching, she waited until she was sure they weren’t returning. There were so many valuables at this ridiculous picnic—who picnics on the stairs of a palace?—that she wouldn’t have to search elsewhere. Imagine if she could grab the corners of the quilt and haul it away over her shoulder.
She picked up the silver snuffbox. On its lid shone a star picked out in diamond chips; a huge pearl gleamed in its center. It had to be worth a thousand livres. Five months’ rent. With a quick glance behind her, she dropped it into her pocket. She smoothed her skirt and felt how the snuffbox hung heavily underneath, reassuring as a promise.
And then there was the food. She heard Papa’s voice in her ear: See how the aristos waste good food, leaving it for rats to gorge on! She could even imagine herself setting type for the pamphlet he’d write, one with an etching of the half-eaten picnic. The title would condemn them all: Nobles Feast While Our Children Starve!
Not this child, she thought ruefully, not when these riches were laid out before her. Kneeling on the coverlet, she snatched up a half-eaten pastry and stuffed it into her mouth. A dazzling hit of sweet marzipan danced across her tongue. Next she gulped down a handful of tiny strawberries, then an herbed chicken leg, salty and rich. The wineglass had a smear of lip paint on it but she was thirsty and did not care; the strong red wine burned as it ran down her throat.
As she set the glass down, Camille heard music from upstairs. Violins singing high together. Could it be? She stood up, pressing her skirts straight. Somewhere upstairs, another door opened. Laughter spilled out—and something else. The clickety-clickety-clickety of a roulette wheel.
17
At the top of the landing was a set of double doors. One of them stood ajar. Beyond it, in a grand, high-ceilinged room stuffed with mirrors and paintings and gilt everything, aristocrats clustered around green baize-covered tables or sat in chairs listening to the final strains of a string quartet playing Mozart. The gaming tables were crowded, two rows deep, the faces of the players flushed pink with heat and excitement. Not to mention their rouge. On every surface, wax candles burned bright; between the guests, footmen strolled with trays of sweets and canapés and swaying glasses of champagne. One of the ladies gave a shout; the whole room watched as she gleefully raked up her winnings.
That could be me, Camille thought. She had only to get inside.
And then, opportunity presented itself: a couple were on their way out. Just as they were leaving, she would sneak in. No one would notice; it could not be easier.
The couple passed Camille, nodding in her direction. She dipped her head in return, slipped around them, and was nearly through the doorway when from nowhere a footman stepped forward, a piece of white paper in his hand.
“Invitation?” he said.
“I haven’t got it with me,” she stammered.
“For you, madame, it’s no trouble; what name?” He peered at his sheet.
With a sinking feeling, Camille realized it was hopeless. There was no way to guess
a name off that list, and even if he were holding it so she could read it, the chance was too great that she’d pick the name of someone already inside.
“It’s nothing,” she said, waving her hand as if swatting at a fly.
“No name?” Realization spread across his face. Stepping outside, he pulled the door closed behind him. “Then I can’t let you in.”
Merde. Even the servants had hierarchies here.
Keeping her back straight and proud, Camille crossed the landing to a pair of windows that overlooked an orangerie, where potted orange trees had been arranged among curving gravel paths. Several gardeners moved between them with watering cans. Beyond the trees glimmered a lake, hazy in the afternoon sun.
She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter.
But it did. Sophie had been right about Camille’s idea to come to Versailles. It was destined to be a failure. Outside, the gardeners struggled to move one of the orange trees. Under their coarse shirts, their shoulders strained.
“Showed you the door, did they?” said a voice behind her. “It’s insufferable when they do that.”
Camille startled away from the window. Slouching against the wall was a boy about her age, seventeen or eighteen. He wore an elegant lavender suit embroidered with silver flowers and red-heeled court shoes. He was not especially tall, but handsome nevertheless with his square jaw and teasing hazel eyes. His pale skin and flushed cheeks made a contrast to his wavy, walnut-brown hair, which he wore faintly powdered and pulled back with a black ribbon. A dimple curved in his cheek as if he were trying not to laugh.
Distractedly, he patted the pockets of his jacket. “Snuff?”
The snuffbox she’d found lay deep in its hidden pocket. “No, thank you.”
“I meant, do you have any?” The boy heaved a theatrical sigh. “I suppose the answer is no.” He pulled a fat gold watch from his pocket and frowned at it. “I must run. Are you still determined to attend the Comte d’Astignac’s party?”
Heat flamed up her neck. “It wasn’t that—”
Enchantée Page 9