D’Astignac blanched. “Go then, and God be with you.”
“How ever did you do that?” Camille asked as she followed Chandon outside.
“He’s notoriously afraid of any kind of sickness,” Chandon said. “Mention it and he’ll run the other direction.”
“Still, one minute more and d’Astignac would have wagered the lease for his house!” Camille said.
“Bah! He only mentions it to lure unsuspecting ladies into his trap,” said Aurélie with a smirk. “Then, he trounces you.”
Camille frowned, half-serious. “No one trounces me.”
“Not yet. Besides,” Chandon observed, “too much winning isn’t good for anyone. Remember?”
Camille ducked her head. She’d been unwise. In the thrill of the moment, it was all too easy to forget. “I’ll be more careful, I promise.”
“Careful about what?” Aurélie asked.
“Allons-y!” Taking a lantern from a table, Chandon ushered them through the doors. “Cache-cache awaits.”
The moonlit night was cool relief after the heat of the gaming rooms. Their pastel-colored clothes glowed in the darkness as they ran between the pools of the Water Parterre and down the stone steps to the next parterre, where a party was taking place under a large silken tent, glowing with rose-colored candles. In the vague darkness, it shimmered like a moth’s wing. The queen and her friends were dining at a long table, jumbled with glasses and plates and food. Stumbling around the edge of the tent, a blindfolded courtier fell into a man’s lap; Marie Antoinette and her favorite, the Duchess de Polignac, burst out laughing. Next to the queen, a man in a foreign uniform poured champagne until it frothed over the lips of the glasses.
“Something new, those tinted candles?” Chandon asked idly as they went by, keeping well away from the party.
“All the rage, mon ami,” Aurélie said, linking arms with Camille and Chandon as they headed down the slope. “If you want them, you must order in advance, and after you order, you must wait. Can you imagine: a queue for candles?”
It is nothing compared to a queue for bread, Camille thought, but she kept it to herself.
Two soaring walls of yew trees—so tall they blocked out the stars—edged the stretch of lawn known as the Green Carpet. Against their plush gloom, marble statues of Roman gods and goddesses glowed eerily white.
“They’re like ghosts,” Aurélie said with a shiver.
“Shh, the real ghosts will hear you.” Chandon stared down the expanse of shadowy green. “Where are the others?”
“There.” Aurélie pointed straight ahead. “Someone’s coming out of the trees.”
Two figures stepped out of the hedge: one wore a crown of flowers; the other one, golden-haired, stopped and raised his arm. “Dépêchez-vous!” the Vicomte de Séguin shouted. “The game’s nearly over!”
“Séguin,” muttered Chandon. “Always appearing where he’s not wanted.”
“Some may want him,” Aurélie said, squeezing Camille’s arm. “Even though he’s not a marquis like you, Chandon, he is terribly rich and handsome, if you like your lover to resemble a gold statue. I’ve caught him looking at our baroness with something very much like longing.”
“Hardly,” Camille said, though she knew what Aurélie meant about the way he stared. “More like he’s hoping to catch me cheating.”
When they reached the middle of the lawn, Séguin had already disappeared into the hedges and Julien Aubert, Baron de Guilleux, strode up to them. Strikingly sunburned, as if he spent long hours out of doors, with a beaky nose like a Roman emperor, Guilleux was all warmth and smiles. Against his golden-brown skin, his sea-green eyes nearly glowed. He had a tumbler of red wine in his hand, which he finished off and then set neatly in the grass.
“Bienvenue à nos jeux!” He beamed. “Everyone, welcome to our entertainments!”
“Julien’s an officer in the navy—and our host,” Aurélie said in Camille’s ear. “The midnight garden revels, including this game of cache-cache, are his invention. Isn’t he terribly clever?”
Greeting them all with kisses, even Camille, he crowned them with wildflower circlets like his own. Only Aurélie’s was fashioned of tiny pink roses that gleamed against her ebony hair; by the way the baron looked at Aurélie with unabashed admiration, Camille suspected he’d planned it.
“You’ve come just in time, mes amis,” Guilleux said. “The others have already taken their hiding places. Per our usual rules, the person who’s le loup—the wolf—guards the Fountain of Apollo—the one with the bronze horses and chariot. Put your hand in the fountain’s water and you are safe. Be touched by le loup, however, and you must hunt with le loup.”
“Hunt with the wolf?” Camille laughed.
Guilleux pretended to launch an arrow from an imaginary bow. “To help him, bien sûr, and find all the others who are hiding.”
“And what’s our prize? If we’re the last to be found?” Aurélie asked.
“A gondola ride on the Grand Canal.” Guilleux smiled when he saw their surprised faces. “My valet arranged it.” He waved toward the Apollo fountain, where a shadow stood out against the water, waiting. “Count again, will you?” Guilleux shouted to the boy standing there. “We’ve three more who want to play.”
While the boy counted, his voice muffled, the others scrambled into the maze of hedges and topiary surrounding the fountain. Camille had hoped to hide with Chandon, but he vanished quickly into the maze of yews. Ducking as branches scratched at her face, Camille ran on. Behind the statues, shadows deepened: good places to hide. She squeezed in behind a figure of Proserpine. No one would see her; she could barely see her own hand. But she could see the fountain, and the shape of the boy who was le loup, straight ahead of her. As soon as he went to look for the others, she’d run to put her hand in the water.
She stooped in the hedge for what seemed like hours. Field mice scratched in the leaves nearby, and she tucked her dress closer. She felt it resist; it didn’t like to be cramped. She slapped at midges biting her neck. Behind her, the bushes crackled as Aurélie bumbled in.
“I found you!” She crouched down beside Camille. “Isn’t this a charming game?”
“It might be, if your skirt wasn’t suffocating me,” Camille said as she pushed some of the flounces away.
“What? There’s nowhere else to hide.”
“We’re in the gardens of the palace. There must be a hundred places!” But secretly Camille was glad Aurélie had sought her out.
“And be too far away? I don’t know what I’ll do if Guilleux doesn’t find me. I might expire.” She rested her head on Camille’s shoulder. “I’m so desperately in love with him.”
“He’s certainly besotted with you.”
“You think?” Aurélie sighed. “My husband won’t care, as long as he never hears of it. But it’s hard to be discreet here. Everyone loves rumors and if you are young and pretty—as we are—they’re thrilled if the rumors bring you down. Maman warned me that at Versailles, the men hunt in the forests and the women hunt in the palace.” She peered through the rustling bushes. “Voilà! Here comes Julien. I hoped he was following me.”
Soon the Baron de Guilleux was kneeling under the yew branches next to Aurélie. They grinned at each other. “This is fun, isn’t it?” Guilleux said. “All crushed in together like this?”
Camille laughed. But underneath her smile, the sight of the two of them—pressed close in the underbrush like child-elves from fairyland—made her ache with envy.
“Hush!” Guilleux said. “The wolf will hear us.”
“Look there.” Aurélie pointed out into the clearing. “He’s moving.”
Having left his post by the fountain, the figure wandered off to the right, where he disappeared in the shadows of the trees. Overhead, a nightingale trilled.
“I’ll go, then,” Camille said. “Bonne chance.” She peeled back the branches until she stood, listening, in front of the hedge. Now was her moment. Picking up her s
kirts, she ran toward the fountain. It was not far, and she was almost there when she heard something crash out of the trees. Then the wolf caught her, grasping her shoulder.
“Got you!” he shouted.
“You sneak!” Camille said, pushing his hand off. “The wolf isn’t supposed to hide!”
Behind her, he was breathing hard. “All’s fair in love and cache-cache.”
She spun around to face him.
He looked as if he’d stepped out of a woodland scene in a play: deep-green suit, a heavy crown of fern and daisies in his hair. In the dark, lace gleamed white at his throat and around the hand he still held suspended in the air. A diamond ring on his finger caught the starlight. When he saw her expression, he laughed, his teeth a flash in the tawny brown of his beautiful face.
It was Lazare.
34
He was dressed like every aristocrat in the palace.
She struggled to take it all in: the suit embroidered in silver that hugged his shoulders like a second skin, its pockets empty of packages or spyglasses. Fashionable breeches ran tight down his thighs; the buckles on his shoes glittered with white stones. Even his cravat—usually a messy afterthought—was snow-white and meticulously tied.
And the drumming thought in her mind: how?
Even his ink-black hair was faintly powdered, she saw now. Apart from his clever, long-fingered hands and his golden skin, he could have been anyone else. Like me, she thought—perhaps he too had disguised himself to come here? A tiny spark of hope flamed to life. She’d thought him a member of the bourgeoisie, but he too might be a thief and a gambler like her, come to prey on the aristocrats.
“You?” she gasped.
“Why not?”
“That’s all you have to say?”
Lazare stared. “Forgive me, have we met before?”
No shock of recognition. He did not see her.
From the time when she first came to Versailles and the Vicomte de Séguin didn’t recognize her, she knew that the glamoire would shield her, as long as the magic lasted. That was what the glamoire was supposed to do. Hide her.
And yet.
She’d been herself with him, in Paris. She’d been someone else here, and until now, she’d managed to keep her worlds distinct. Separate. But Lazare had stepped from one to the other and now she was lost. It was as if she’d marked her path through the woods with bread crumbs, only to find the path utterly gone.
Her snare-drum pulse beat faster and faster, but she willed herself calm.
He bowed, deeply, making a flourish with his hand. “Lazare Mellais.”
“He’s also the Marquis de Sablebois,” Aurélie called as she burst out of the bushes and threw her arms around his neck. “Unlike me, he never mentions his title unless he has to.”
No. He could not be. Not one of them, not Lazare with his lazy smile, his graceful ease. He smiled at Aurélie—a kind smile, a brother’s smile—as Camille’s mind reeled between opposites: revulsion that those hands were ones that could write letters asking for favors from the king, and spinning desire for those same hands, the ones that touched her.
Between herself and these aristocrats she’d built a fine wall in her mind: they might come this far only; she might walk to that border, but she would not wholly cross it nor dismantle it, brick by invisible brick. There was too much safety in it. Aristocrats had been the enemy for too long to let her guard down. Grandmère; the clients of Papa’s who turned on him and made him go bankrupt for his political views. The rich who stood on the backs of the poor and bent them to the ground.
Now an aristocrat stood inside her wall.
“My title is a suit that doesn’t fit,” Lazare said, quickly, but she couldn’t tell if his nonchalance was real or pretend. “Will you introduce me to your friend?”
“Isn’t she the loveliest? This is Cécile, the Baroness de la Fontaine.”
“Enchanté,” Lazare said, bowing again.
Camille flushed as she curtsied.
“She’s recently come to court,” Aurélie went on. “Her husband’s dead.”
“Aurélie, what are you saying?” Lazare said, as if offended on Camille’s behalf.
“She doesn’t care. Husbands aren’t any good unless they’re gone—which you would know, Lazare, if you were required to have one.”
His face clouded. “My apologies.”
“Not at all,” Camille said, using her best imitation of Aurélie to cover the confusion she felt. “But I wonder if it’s not time for me to go.” She counterfeited a pretty yawn. “It’s almost morning and I’ve a long ride back to Paris.”
“But you mustn’t, not yet—”
A shout cut Aurélie off.
Out of the hedges on the other side of the fountain, Chandon emerged, followed closely by Séguin. As they came closer, Camille saw that Chandon was injured, a livid scratch across his cheek.
“You’re hurt!” she cried.
“It was Séguin who did it,” Chandon snapped. “He forgets himself and behaves like the ruffian he is.”
“Blame it on me, of course,” the vicomte said silkily. His face wore its usual sneer. “It was the way you were scrambling through the shrubbery.”
Angry color flared in Chandon’s cheeks. “I was hurt trying to get away from you.”
“You’re bleeding.” Séguin stepped close to Chandon as he dug in his pocket for a handkerchief.
Chandon flung off Séguin’s hand. “Leave me!”
“I only wish to help. What ails you?” he said, his voice mocking.
In answer, Chandon drew his sword with a hiss of steel.
Instantly, as if he were Chandon’s mirror-image, Séguin drew his own weapon. In the moonlight, its blade gleamed, a cold smile. A line of energy sprang up between the two sword-points, racing up the boys’ arms to their shoulders, necks, and their tense, terrifying faces.
The line crackled with heat.
Desperate for them to cease, for there to be no more fighting, no one hurt, Camille cried out, “Stop it! Please don’t—”
“I told you to stay away from me,” Chandon growled. Blade up, he circled closer.
“You forget yourself,” Séguin hissed, the tip of his sword leveled at Chandon’s throat. “You cannot tell me what to do.”
At the malice in his voice, Camille’s dress stiffened, uneasy.
“No?” Chandon laughed grimly. “You think you have so much power? I outrank you in every way possible, Vicomte.”
“Hardly,” Séguin snapped. “Rank means nothing when you are—”
“Enough!” Aurélie dashed between them and held her hands up, her palms only inches from their swords’ points. Her chest rose and fell. “What will you do? Fight until first blood, when one of you is cut open? Then call for the court surgeon to come and sew you up? Or will your honor only be satisfied with death? The king forbids dueling and will throw you in prison, titles or not,” she stormed. “Besides, you’re behaving like idiots.”
The tip of Chandon’s sword wobbled.
“Don’t have what it takes, Chandon?” Séguin sneered.
“You know it’s not that.” Under his breath, he spat: “Cheater.”
“What did you say?”
“Come away, Aurélie.” Guilleux’s throat worked. “And both of you, put down your swords. You’re frightening the ladies with your foolishness.”
Drawn by the shouting, Foudriard had emerged from his hiding place and come to stand by Chandon. He said something to him, but Chandon shook his head, coughing. “Tell him to keep his hands off me,” he said.
Séguin laughed. “Most people want my hands on them, but, as you wish.” Sheathing his sword, he strode away.
Chandon and Séguin had nearly dueled over a scratch. Camille had thought duels were fought for love, or honor—not something as trivial as that. Unless it wasn’t trivial? Perhaps there was bad blood between them. Some old grudge?
“Are you cold, madame? Take my coat,” Lazare said, shrugging out of
it. “Please.” He must have seen something in her face, because he added, quietly so only she might hear, “You’re Chandon’s friend, non? Don’t worry about him. He and I played at duels when we first came to court, as children. For all his wit, he has a quick temper. But rest assured, in dueling, no one’s his equal.”
It didn’t do much to reassure her, but it was something. Lazare held his coat out behind her, just as he had in the balloon. When she stepped backward into its warmth, his hands brushed her bare neck, just as they had when as they’d sailed over Paris. She’d thought then that he’d done it because he cared about her, because he wanted to have the excuse to touch her. But now? Why did he do it now if he hadn’t recognized her?
Perhaps—a prickling, painful thought—he was this kind to all the girls he met. Perhaps he did take other girls up in the tower at Notre-Dame and tell them, too, that they’d bewitched him.
She did not know anymore.
He went to where Foudriard stood with Chandon, his face still white and flat as a sheet. Lazare bent his dark head to Chandon’s walnut-colored one. She couldn’t hear what they said, but eventually, Chandon laughed, gripped Lazare’s shoulder. He was kind; she could not deny it.
At the far end of the linden walk, a flutter of movement. “Someone’s coming,” she said.
Led by a boy holding a candelabra of ice-blue candles, Marie Antoinette, in a simple white dress, strolled toward them. Next to her, a man in a foreign uniform walked languidly, picking wildflowers.
“How lovely she still is,” Aurélie murmured. “Can you believe she is thirty-four? Some say she drinks secret potions to keep her complexion. Arsenic—or magic.”
“Arsenic, most likely,” said Chandon. He raised his eyebrow significantly at Camille.
Did he mean the queen used magic?
“Of course it’s arsenic! Magic doesn’t exist,” Aurélie protested. “Not anymore. Everyone knows that.”
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