“Please be quick!”
He unbarred the gate and she slipped in. Now that she was safe, her legs threatened to fold. “My sister?”
“It’s been a terrible night,” he said. “Lean on me, Baroness. Madame de Théron will cry tears of relief when she sees you.”
Before Camille was past the entrance hall, Madame de Théron threw her arms around her, not caring about Camille’s dirty dress.
“How we waited for you!” she wept. “We thought you were dead! You look terrible, not at all yourself! We feared—at Versailles—what would the crowd do there? Monstres!” She covered her face with her ringed fingers.
“I’m sorry you were so frightened, madame! At Versailles we knew nothing of what had happened.” In the salon behind Madame de Théron, a fire danced in the grate, but there was no sign of Sophie. “Is my sister asleep?”
Madame de Théron blinked. “Mademoiselle Sophie?”
Yes, my sister! Remember her? Camille wanted to shout. “I must tell her I’ve returned,” she said to Madame and the gatekeeper, who continued to stare at her as if she were a ghost.
She ran up the steps, taking them two at a time.
Upstairs, their pretty sitting room was silent.
No candles lit, the curtains still open, as if no one had closed them that evening. Fantôme hopped down from a chair and meowed plaintively.
The skin on the back of her neck crawled. “Where is she?” Camille asked the cat.
In Sophie’s room, the bed had not been slept in. One of the doors to her wardrobe yawned open. All of Sophie’s best dresses were missing from their hooks, her embroidered shoes vanished from their racks. Her summer coat, dove-gray with yellow peonies embroidered on the cuffs, was gone. So was the petal-pink cloak Camille had worn at Notre-Dame. Even Sophie’s wool cloak, the one with the collar of dyed mink, was no longer there.
It was July and Sophie had taken her winter cloak.
“She’s not coming back,” Camille said to the empty room. “Where has she gone?”
The floor tilted and she steadied herself on Sophie’s dressing table. Fantôme watched unblinking from the center of the room. There had to be a simple explanation. Sophie would never run away. Even if she were angry with Camille. She wasn’t the kind of person who would simply set out somewhere.
At least, she hadn’t been. Who knew anymore what Sophie might do?
She would go back down and ask Madame. Perhaps Sophie had said something to her.
As she turned to go, she saw it.
Tucked between the glass and the frame of the mirror above Sophie’s dressing table was a letter.
58
Chère Camille,
I am so very sorry I left without speaking with you. But perhaps it is for the best. I fear you would not have understood.
I’m certain you will be worried, but don’t be. I have gone to meet him. He has promised me a wonderful life.
No one has forced me—this is what I want. Even fairy-tale princesses sometimes get to bring about their own happiness.
Please forgive me that I kept this a secret from you. Alain has given his blessing and I hope you will, too, when you see how happy I am with my future husband.
You know him already—Jean-Baptiste de Vaux, the Vicomte de Séguin.
Je t’embrasse—
Sophie
Camille read the letter twice.
Sophie had eloped. Sophie had eloped with the Vicomte de Séguin.
Her sister was in terrible danger.
Stumbling from the room, she raced downstairs. Madame de Théron and Tounis the gatekeeper still stood aimlessly in the entry, waiting for her.
“Sophie is gone!” Camille nearly screamed. “Why did you say nothing?”
“I tried, but you ran upstairs. Mademoiselle never came home this night. Gallivanting about and now she’s—dead, I presume!” Madame de Théron covered her face with her handkerchief and sobbed.
“Tell me, please, who fetched her?” Camille asked Tounis.
“Your sister left before the madness started in the streets. I told Madame not to worry,” he said, pleased with himself.
“But where did she go?”
He shrugged. “She didn’t say.”
“Did she go by foot? Or did someone come for her?” Camille has been with Séguin nearly the entire night. He must have had an accomplice, or sent a servant.
“A nice carriage came for her,” he recalled. “That young man was there, too. He stepped out and helped her in.”
They were cursed-slow, these people, as if they had all the time in the world. “Who? What did he look like?”
“Well-dressed?” Tounis examined the painted ceiling, as if the answer might be discovered there.
“His hair, monsieur,” Camille hissed. She felt as if she would suffocate in this pretty room with its cherub ceiling and dainty chairs and its nonsensical people. “What color was it?”
“Fair, I think. No, no, I know! Reddish like yours.”
His words rang tinny in her ears. Reddish like yours.
“I didn’t recognize him,” he went on. “But your sister seemed to know him quite well. When he arrived, she kissed him.” He nodded sternly at Camille.
“You fool, Tounis!” Madame snapped to attention. “Mademoiselle Sophie’s a good girl and she’s not kissing and going off with just any young man in a carriage! That was her brother! Don’t you remember? She introduced us several weeks ago.”
“Not my brother,” stammered Camille. Had Alain given more than his blessing? Had he arranged this?
“Oh yes.” Madame de Théron nodded. “I’m sure he heard what was happening in Paris and he came to take both of you girls to safety. Of course the Hôtel Théron is a fortress, so really, it was unnecessary,” Madame said. “But you are a mess, Baroness, and you look like a corpse.”
“Please, sit,” the gatekeeper said, patting the chair cushion as if he suddenly were the host. “I will bring you a cognac.”
Camille was made to sit by the fire, to tip the fiery liquid down her throat. Its heat steadied her. She needed to think what to do next. Where would Alain have taken Sophie? Surely not to wherever he lived. They must have gone to a house the Vicomte de Séguin had in Paris. And she had no idea where it might be. How would she find them if they wanted to remain hidden? Sophie was headstrong and Alain was right there at her elbow, guiding her to her doom.
For certainly it was doom to marry a magician such as Séguin.
Camille rubbed her aching neck. What would she do? What could she do? Sophie had run off with a powerful aristocrat who had no scruples to prevent him from doing whatever he liked. Maybe he would never marry Sophie, only seduce her. And then abandon her. The strangest thing was that he had nearly proposed to Camille, too. Perhaps he wanted one of them—and either Camille or Sophie would do. But why?
What was it Séguin had wanted to talk to Camille about? And Alain, in his letter? She feared she now knew.
“Baroness de la Fontaine,” the gatekeeper said, “you look ill. I will bring you another cognac.”
As soon as he left, Camille reached out to touch Madame de Théron’s hand. “Can you be discreet, madame? My sister is in grave danger. May I have your advice?”
Madame de Théron blinked. “Of course. There is not one person in Paris or Versailles who will not come to my aid,” she said, any uncertainty gone from her voice. “Whatever has happened to our darling Mademoiselle, whatever needs to be done, I will help you.”
“I fear my sister may have gone away with a nobleman. Eloped.”
She gasped. “You mean he seduced her? Here, in my house?”
“I don’t think he came here, madame. The man asked my brother to fetch her, but I don’t know where they’ve gone.” Camille exhaled shakily. “I don’t know what to do!”
Madame de Théron exhaled. “You must go to the queen.”
Marie Antoinette? “What can she do?”
“Ban the rake from court! Send him awa
y, before he can defile your sister. To be banished would be a kiss of death for a man like that!”
Yes. For someone like Séguin, it would be. She could not imagine him anywhere else but the gilded rooms of Versailles. “But I’m nothing to the queen. Why would she help me?”
“For my sake, bien sûr!” snorted Madame de Théron. “You will go with a letter from my own hand. And then watch how the queen brings him to heel.” She swallowed the rest of her brandy. “In this lawless new world, there are still a few rules.”
59
At Madame de Théron’s urging, and with her letter to the queen heavy in her purse, Camille turned back on the dusty road to Versailles. As they made their way out of Paris, they passed the Bastille with its tumbled towers. The drawbridge was down and alongside its moat, a group of men and women were shouting songs and shooting off muskets.
Camille gritted her teeth. She would do what needed to be done.
If she hadn’t brought Sophie to the masked ball, she would never have encountered Séguin again. Unless—they had somehow met before that? On those walks Sophie took? But it didn’t matter. If Camille had kept a closer watch on Sophie, she would never have had the chance to elope with him.
What had happened with Sophie was her fault—she saw that clearly now.
She remembered how she’d trusted the high wall surrounding the Hôtel Théron to keep danger out. If she hadn’t been blinded by Versailles’ glitter, she might have moved them somewhere farther away—Lyon? Nantes?—where distance would have been the wall and Alain would never have found them.
But she hadn’t.
She had lost sight of the most important thing.
* * *
Once at the palace, Camille wove her way through the clusters of gossiping aristocrats in the Hall of Mirrors, all of them exclaiming about the frightful storming of the Bastille as they planned all tomorrow’s parties. By the windows that opened onto the balustrade, she spotted Aurélie, the Baron de Guilleux, and Lord Willsingham together, deep in hushed conversation. When Camille drew close, their faces brightened with relief.
Aurélie threw her arms around Camille. “Ma belle! We were so worried when we heard the news from Paris! But you seem fine, non? Whatever happened to the dress you were wearing last night?”
“I’m not certain,” Camille said carefully. “The dye had been poorly fixed—I spilled wine on it and the color started to run. It was too ruined even to give to my maid.”
“Sadly, there are much more important issues than ruined dresses, mesdames,” Guilleux said. His sunburned cheeks were stubbled with a day’s-worth of beard. “Baroness de la Fontaine, Lord Willsingham has offered his carriage to take Aurélie back to her estate. I will accompany her.”
“Come with us, Cécile,” Aurélie said hurriedly. “There’s not much to do in the country and pardieu, my husband adds nothing to dinner conversation but lectures on the best kind of rabbit hutch or some such idiocy. But it’s lovely there and I would be overjoyed to have you with me.” Aurélie’s smile faltered at the edges. “Please. I will fear for you if you stay here.”
“Damn me, this trouble is going to stir up you nobility,” Willsingham said in his terrible French. “Once people break in one place, they break in every place.”
“He means,” Guilleux said, patting Willsingham on the shoulder, “that things are going to get worse for us from now on. And I don’t doubt it. It’s only a matter of time and then we’ll all find ourselves with our heads on pikes.”
“Julien! It won’t come to that,” Aurélie exclaimed.
“It will if you stay here,” Willsingham said. “Go to your estates in the country. And if you don’t feel safe there, come to England. My roof has holes but the house is large.”
“But how will you get to your estate? There are bread riots in the provinces!” Camille said, thinking of her friends in their lavish carriages. “My brother, who was to be sent to guard the grain wagons, told me. Anyone, but especially nobles, suspected of hoarding grain has been threatened—some even killed. How can you know it will be safer there?”
Aurélie’s pretty face grew somber. “I don’t. But at Versailles I have only a room on a hallway with a tiny lock on the door. Anyone who comes to the palace can find me, eventually. At our estate, at least we have a moat.” She smiled. “A deep one. And many guards. We could hold a siege there. Imagine, Cécile!” she said, warming to her subject. “We would be utterly safe.”
A castle with a moat would be heaven, if she had Sophie with her. “Soon, perhaps—but my sister is in Paris. I can’t leave yet.” She hesitated. “Chandon? Have you seen him?”
Aurélie shook her head. “I’ve searched everywhere. He looked terrible last night. Tell him, when you see him, that he should go home, too. Don’t let him wait too long, d’accord?”
Camille nodded. She couldn’t speak.
“Then this is good-bye for now,” Aurélie said, kissing Camille. “Our first stop is Tours; we leave immediately. You have my card. Come anytime—no need to send word, just come.”
Camille embraced Aurélie and then watched as the three of them hurried down the glittering hall. Maybe she would go, once she got Sophie to see that eloping with Séguin was disastrous. They both would be better off away from Paris.
As she made her way to the queen’s rooms, Camille rehearsed Madame Théron’s instructions. She would give the letter to one of her ladies-in-waiting. She would be polite, but not afraid. Determined. The queen must take pity on her, see the danger of the situation—help her. At the doors to the queen’s antechamber, Camille paused, set her shoulders back, and pressed the flat of her hand to her bodice, over her stomach. The dress shifted to meet her palm, reassuring her with its sangfroid. Camille brought a smile to her lips and went in.
There was no queue of courtiers waiting to speak to the queen at her morning toilette. Instead, Marie Antoinette sat almost alone at her dressing table, her morning robe loose around her shoulders. Behind her stood her long-nosed hairdresser, deftly coiling a lock of the queen’s hair into place. In front of her, pots of rouge, tubs of creams, and several hairbrushes spread out across the table. Mixed among them were a hand of cards, facedown, and a tiny, half-empty cup of chocolate.
“Majesté,” said one of the ladies-in-waiting, as she folded a Kashmiri shawl. “Madame la Baroness de la Fontaine is here.”
Camille made a deep reverence, relieved that she hadn’t forgotten Sophie’s lessons.
The queen’s blue eyes met Camille’s gray ones in the mirror. “Venez, venez,” she said.
Her hairdresser, the famed Léonard, raised a charcoaled eyebrow as Camille came forward, but then bent assiduously over the queen’s hair.
Marie Antoinette gestured to an embroidered stool that Camille knew was usually occupied by the Duchess de Polignac. “Madame la Duchess is going on a visit to Switzerland,” the queen said brightly, “so it does not matter where you sit. There are no more rules, madame. N’est-ce pas, Léonard? It’s all falling down like a child’s tower made of sticks.” She made a wry face in the mirror.
Camille sat down slightly behind the queen, so that she could see Marie Antoinette’s reflection in her looking glass, and hazarded a small smile. Under the queen’s eyes purple shadows lingered, and her forehead was creased with deep lines. “These are frightening days, Majesté.”
The queen nodded. “Léonard, can’t you add something to make it fuller?”
“Fullness is overrated, Majesté,” he said. In the past, he’d favored towering wigs but today his own hair was tinted a subdued brown and tied back with a black ribbon. “My friends in Paris tell me it is about to become démodé. Sleek, simple—that’s what I imagine for these times.” He waved his jeweled fingers at his own hair. “Comme ça. Slowly, slowly we will change your hair, and then, pouf! No one will remember how it was. But today, Majesté, only a subtle shift.”
In her fist, Camille clenched the fabric of her dress. How could they speak of hair at a time
like this?
“Slaves to fashion, aren’t we all? The queen of France, cowed by her hairdresser. People might say this is something new, but it’s always been like this, hasn’t it, Léonard?”
Léonard bowed. “Majesté.”
Why would the queen not get to the point? Camille had no time to endure the whole of Marie Antoinette’s toilette.
One of the ladies-in-waiting pulled dresses from a tall wardrobe and sorted them into two piles. Another stood at the queen’s enormous jewelry chest, slipping glittering handfuls of necklaces and bracelets into a plain leather case. They might have been preparing to go to one of the other palaces, like Saint-Cloud, to hunt, but the hush that hung over the packing, the quiet speed: it felt to Camille as it had when she and Sophie left their old apartment on the rue Charlot. The queen was preparing to escape. While Camille was pushing her way deeper into the webs of Versailles.
Marie Antoinette checked a tiny white-and-gold clock on the dressing table. “What is it you wished to talk with me about, madame?”
“It’s a matter concerning my sister.”
“A younger sister?”
“Yes. Unmarried.” Camille willed herself to continue. “I have reason to believe she has eloped with the Vicomte de Séguin.”
“That would indeed be horrible,” the queen said, her voice measured. “I assume your father hasn’t given his consent? Why is he not here to speak to me?”
“I’m an orphan, Majesté, and my husband is dead.”
The queen made a soft, clucking sound. “What a pity. No brothers?”
“Only one. He’s a drunkard and of no help to me.”
In the glass, Léonard gave the queen a knowing look.
“I know little of what the vicomte does when he is not with us,” she said. “He is a very private man, n’est-ce pas?”
“But what am I to do?” Camille said, frustrated. “Sophie is only fifteen. I thought you might—”
“Might what?”
What had she thought the queen would do? Order Séguin to divulge his secrets by threatening to cast him from court? To hand over Sophie?
Enchantée Page 33