by S. P. Grogan
So, along with Blasse and another servant, both running in front of the carriage to clear a path, the play-goers arrived at Théâtre des Tuileries, known also as the Salle des Machines, within the palace. The production was the premiere from dramatist Jean-Francois Ducis of his adaptation of Shakespeare’s Romeo et Juliette. The actors were from the Comedie-Francis, who two years earlier had taken over the space when the Paris Opera vacated the space for their own building. The architects Soufflot and Gabriel had reconfigured the room to seat 500, with loge balcony seating for the more important ticket holders. What made the evening more intriguing was the audience was asked to wear masks to mimic the masquerade ball of the Captulets, Act 1, Scene 5, when romance first blooms between Romeo and Juliet. Gilbert, in a black mask, to match his uniform, looked forward to the sword fight between Mercutio and adversary Tybalt; for he had been taking fencing lessons of late, and was seeking comparison.
As he sat in the assigned private box Gilbert had time to gaze out at the audience, and felt in fact, perhaps they were staring back, wondering who he might be. That brought on a slight titillating inner impulse. So, that’s what recognition and fame might feel like, he smugly considered, knowing he was masked and obscured from identification. Public fame would not be so bad; it is a measurement of one’s accomplishments. He could handle fame, so Gilbert came to believe.
Just before the curtain rose, servant Blasse, who had been standing attentively behind Gilbert leaned over to whisper, “Have you noticed the charming women opposite of you in the velvet plush box?”
Gilbert had indeed seen them upon his first seating. They were quite young, five of them, all in chatter and laughter, hidden behind white masks, elaborately designed. He assumed they were of noble families but could not see behind the cream white make up and made up coiffures, if any were attractive.
“Yes, I see them.”
“Notice the lady-in-waiting, the servant who stands behind them.”
Gilbert like most nobles did not notice servants, they were not to be seen, nor heard, except as he knew many times from interference borne on Blasse’s impertinent tongue. This young woman, dressed less lavish, yet in a fine dress, wore a white mask, not as extravagant, but bird like with small feathered plumes that covered most of her face. The young servant leaned her head to those of the other women and seemed to be exchanging comments, rare between maid and mistress.
Almost as an equal, Gilbert observed and then understood the jest.
“She is the one in true disguise.”
“Very astute, sire. A good commander before taking to the field must survey the terrain of the coming battleground.”
The massive crystal chandeliers were lowered their candles extinguished, the lampions of oil illuminations on the sidewalls were snuffed to darkness, the curtain rose, and the play began.
As part of La Comédie Française, there was to be found more dancing within all the recent plays, an attempt to appeal to the public tastes, the audiences starting to appreciate the art of showy dance and ballet. Even sometimes an operatic song from another production would be spliced into a scene. Such plays of these times still had much comedic exaggeration even among tragedies, and though not the fencing quality of his academy, Gilbert became caught up in the repartee humor of offense by the actors, and the slash and stabs of the dueling. He cared little for the plot’s romantic artifice, and over-looked how really young the ‘star-crossed’ lovers were suppose to be, since the stage actors were much older than the presumed lovers of his years.
At the play’s concluding monologue, where the Prince asks the clans to stop their warring against each other, the ending dirge scene provided more dancers around the bier of the two dead lovers. Here, Blasse leaned in again, unseen to Gilbert’s ear.
“Note the dancer on the far end, towards us. How graceful she moves, her posture.”
Gilbert noticed. The young woman, the ballerina, danced with pleasure, sensuality blossoming from serious intent. Adagio.
Said the Prince of Verona: "For never was a story of more woe / Than this of Juliet and her Romeo."
The play ended with the actors bowing to strong applause to their success. The audience moved slowly towards the palace exits, milling and conversation existing of its own ballet. Since everyone was presumed incognito behind masks, not truly so, since little of the face lay hidden, , this did not stop light bantering between those who knew each other, but pretended otherwise. Conversations by masque, perhaps to seek out future romantic liaisons allowed for more risqué exchanges that would not be accepted in genial salon atmosphere, and the game of identity guessing, or not wishing to guess, provided more enjoyment than mere cordial greetings.
The group of five young noble women bore down on Gilbert to pass by, swirling hooped skirts, seeking their carriages. He chose that moment to make a wild swing of his hat blocking them to a slow halt.
“Pardon, mademoiselles, I am but a poor soldier in the king’s service, who but can only admire beauty from afar.”
One of the young ladies, from behind a Japonais fan, giggled a snide retort.
“And yes, Monsieur Soldier, from afar shall be your position, away from beauty.”
“Desolation then for me. Perhaps I must cast my eyes on less worthy charms for my station, perhaps your maid shall show favor on a young officer from the provinces?”
With that the pampered and vain women went silent, in shocked effrontery. From behind them the servant, gave a small laugh and passed to the front.
“Monsieur, what shall one do with such a bold and brutish soldier?” Her French was proper but accented.
Gilbert had been correct, and replied jaunting.
“I ask only forgiveness in wishing to be an admirer. I know little of the city, being a soldier from a far off province. Auvergne. It is as far away as, say, Austria.”
They held each other’s gaze before she again spoke.
“Perhaps someday a ladies maid and a soldier...from afar...might converse.” She extended her hand and he kissed it, not passionately, not delicately, but proper. And she walked ahead and the five ladies quickly scurried to catch up.
Blasse, who had been standing in the background as a good servant might, came to his side, having enjoyed the sight of young people playing coy games.
“Sire, you surprise me. So quiet in your manner then so deft in a verbal repartee.”
Gilbert smiled at this meeting.
“You were correct; she is no servant to those ladies.”
“Who is she; a duchess out on a lark, playing as a common servant?”
“Only the few who had met her personally could have recognized the Dauphine, in mufti.”
“That was Marie Antoinette?” Blasse very seldom found himself taken off guard.
“Behave. That is your future queen.” Blasse stared hard at Gilbert, almost in wonder, and the boy responded at having caught the servant short of stammering.
“What do you think I would not be with two years being trained as a courtier? I do know how to act as one, with finesse.” Gilbert laughed, surprised himself at his own brashness. Laughed again, realizing the word banter on ‘afar’ was so true, he would only see his future sovereign from a great distance in court, if at all.
His thoughts were interrupted with the arrival of the Comte and Countess, who had others with them. The night grows only more curious, Gilbert considered.
The Comte turned to the stylish aristocratic lady that was with him, she surrounded by two young ladies, one a child, younger than he. Gilbert knew the older woman, the mother. He accepted another script of court behavior to follow.
All masked, but Gilbert could see the younger ones were dressed with restrained elegance, somewhat of the plain sort, yet in brilliant colors. One mask had fabric flowers sewn to the corners.
“Marquis, let me present to you the Duchess de Noailles, and her daughters, those that are here tonight. This is my ward, the Marquis Gilbert de La Fayette. His late mother was the Comtess
e de La Rivière.”
Gilbert followed the proper protocol, of bow, and kiss to the proffered hand of the mother. He knew that he had been ambushed, but it was in a planned strategy of beginning new acquaintances for farseeing results where he knew he played a small but important role.
“Marquis,” said the mother. “I am most happy to meet your acquaintance. I have heard you are from Auvergne.”
“Yes, Madame, though I believe I will be living in the city most of the time as I have obligations.”
She smiled, but before she could respond came a nubile voice.
“Are you a real soldier?” The seeming youngest daughters blurted.
“Marie Adrienne,” scolded her mother, lightly with affection.
“Indeed I am, Mademoiselle. Ready to defend God and King.”
“Does God need defending?”
Lafayette gave the young girl a stare, wanted to laugh at her, but chose a more tactful retreat from beginning a debate of theology within the Tuileries Palace.
“Have you been crying? I note streaks from under your mask.” Lafayette smiled benignly to all in his hearing, showing he was adept at avoiding unfavorable dialogues.
“Everyone should have cried over the death of lovers.”
“To that I agree. I believe I did shed a tear. But don’t you agree it would have been for the best that they had overcome fate and lived long lives.”
She stared back at him.
“Yes, monsieur, I do so agree.”
Adrienne’s mother smiled at having played her part, the introduction made without suggestion as to the end game as this was also her own wish to inspect the groom-to-be in a public setting. The Duchess was that sort of woman to go out and see for herself, not merely take her husband’s opinion that the boy seemed to have ‘potential’. For the benefit of wishing to see him have interest in the events approaching, if not for his future wife before him, the Duchess played another card, the suggested hint, to the Marquis, aware of his contracted future, but likewise to her daughters, let them understand on how other circumstances needed to be arranged.
“Marquis, I note you are a Musketeer. My husband’s and his father’s regiments are the D’Noailles Dragoons. I do hope someday you might consider such. My husband is a generous man to such inclinations.”
“Madame, being part of the Dragoons would be beyond my expectations, but eagerly sought if possible, if I were worthy.” Flowery courtly language as they all had come to expect and all smiled as they should.
With that said, formal exchanges of parting were made, and the Mother left with children in tow, the twelve year old Marie Adrienne glancing back with a timid smile which Gilbert returned with a small flourish nod of his head.
“That went well,” said the Comte. The Comtesse concurred.
“We are taking the carriage over to Madame Necker’s, who is having a late night salon, and desires our critique on tonight’s performance.”
“Yes,” said the Comte to Gilbert, “and since salons do not excite you I asked Blasse here to see you home. I would not have a problem if you both stopped off at the Procope [coffee house located on the Rue des Fossés-Saint Germaine-des-Prés] to see if any philosophers or Encyclopediasts are in high spirits.”
“Yes, my lord, it is a worthy café where one sees the ebb and flow of all conditions of men,” said Blasse. “I will take good care of him.” The comte and servant, made a silent exchange that Gilbert did not witness.
With further adieus, when the two men exited the palace inhaled the night air, still humid in late July, Blasse commented, “You do have a way with women, sire.”
Gilbert shrugged. “This Adrienne is but a child. How could one in uniform not impress a child?” He paused giving weight to what he had seen of her. “Though she does have a pretty little face.”
“In two years, if your marriage contract is signed, and signed by the king himself, and the wedding nuptials read by a bishop then it is fait accompli and she will be yours, and truly a flowering woman by then.”
Gilbert gave pensive consideration. He had been an outsider involved in the marriage contract, all being business. This feeling was different, she was his future. In this, their first meeting, he all of sudden wondered: was she too talkative, was being too curious a portent of a troublesome shrill?
Blasse commented, trying to guess his musing. “As you have demonstrated tonight, an actor yourself as the glib Casanova, perhaps the night should end with further applause.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gilbert as he followed his servant, now leading him, and they walked away from the route that would have led them towards home.
22.
THE TWO OF THEM, REMOVED of their play-acting masks proceeded from the Tuileries Palace and the dispersing theatre goers, walking within the 1st Arrondissement of Paris to the Rue Saint-Honoré. Among the late night foot traffic and carriages they went unnoticed. As they strolled servant Blasse ran his hand along a building, touching ancient stone that only seemed more a segment of several meters than a full wall.
“It is said that this is all that remains of the ancient Porte Saint-Honoré [Saint-Honoré Gate] and it was here, upon the climbing ladders to breach the city that was held by the English, Jeanne d’Arc was wounded. Did not one of your ancestors fight along St. Jeanne?”
Gilbert looked around him for bearings. He wore his side sword, scabbard, as a dress formality, yet he felt slightly uneasy at the pitch darkness of the side streets. The few people he could see in close inspection were not the best of characters. Confused as to destination he was glad Blasse was with him, knowing he kept a small dagger secreted.
“Yes, my ancestor, Marshall La Fayette, supposedly as tradition is told, caught her as she fell.”
“Heroes are within your blood, sire.”
Gilbert could not see Blasse’s face to see if the expression held sarcasm.
“Where exactly are we going?” A relevant question, he considered.
Blasse took him in a new direction upon a narrow side street. “I have been instructed by certain important personages, whose names desire such to remain obscure. They have asked me, from my own supposed knowledge, to be assuring to them, that you are aware of certain facts of life.”
“I do not follow your meaning, Blasse.”
“Sire, do you know the street where we have now turned?”
“No.” Gilbert gripped his sword hilt, wary.
Blasse gave one of his devilish smiles and guided his master along the tight canyon street, over old and uneven cobblestones.
“That news has proven the speculation to my task. Of those who live within this short street of dreams, few know its history. In ancient times it held the indelicate name of Rue du Poil-au-con. You do excel in your Latin, Master Gilbert, and certainly might have laughed with your fellows in the school yard at the word, cunnus. If you pronounce the street’s name quickly enough you will find the name over time and with sensibility of wit has evolved upon the tongue as Rue du Pélican.”
Gilbert’s eyes and mind widened.
“I have heard that name. This is a street of brothels.”
Servant Giles Blasse knocked on a door, carved with ornate birds...pelicans, it seemed. Turning to his charge, his hand firmly on the boy’s elbow to prevent fleeing, the servant said in a voice, instructional as it was to calming.
“Sire, there are great places within the city, where everyone knows who comes and goes, but such public announcements are not to our disposition. We come to this particular door because their expertise is in being both discreet and educational.” He knocked once more.
“Let us put on our masks again, if only to establish our mystery.”
Gilbert flushed and protested.
“I am quite aware of how one—-.”
“Instruction from pillow books or seeing the animals in the field copulating is not the same as understanding that there is a special religion between man and woman, respect before the altar, revelation in touch, art
in lay sacrament. And I, and my own history, cannot be the proper priest of the flesh.” They both re-masked, Gilbert more quickly out of nervousness.
The door opened.
“My God,” said Gilbert. Before him was the greeter of the establishment, a small African child, dressed in golden clothes as if he had just left the Versailles court, his head wearing a turban. He spoke not a word but beckoned the ‘customers’ into a perfumed hallway.
Blasse had been correct, in one respect, as Gilbert’s wondered awe and curiosity brought him to follow. This was not the bordello hosting naked females to engorged clientele, neither noisy nor exotic but a small well-appointed apartment, richly and ornately decorated. Led to what seemed was a small waiting room, the black-skinned boy poured them a small brandy in crystal snifters, and then departed, solemn, in face and manner.
Both men did not try to speak, one choosing not to, the other, a marquis, seeking to determine what he truly felt: mystery or enchantment?
A minute later, a woman entered. To Gilbert, she had an aura. Much older than he in her mid-thirties, she dressed fashionably, more for the salon setting than the boudoir. She was attractive with cleavage showing but not skimpy to her clothing, not dressed for enticement or with few silk bows of the trade to access quick undressing.
“Madame Gourdan, thank you for allowing us to visit,” said Blasse, bowing with a quick nod, setting him off to anyone as the manservant.
She turned her eyes on Gilbert, and why he did so, he blushed. This was not the way he thought his evening would go, or even his week. It was a decision of crossing that imaginary bridge that he had not really thought of nor understood how it might be accomplished if he so chose to seek out such proclivities by himself. Again, decisions wrenched from him. It seemed incalculable to a courtier’s stature that he should turn and run like a cur, his tail tucked within its legs, though within his own legs something began to rise in further wonder of what might yet transpire.