Delphine

by Sylvia Halliday

  They settled into the small boat, sitting back comfortably on cushions while the oarsmen pulled on their long sweeps. The night was soft, the spring sky still light, with a fine mist beginning to rise on the river, a silver crescent moon hung in the pale heavens just over the Pont Neuf.

  “Where are we going?” said André.

  “The Place Royale.”

  André nodded. He knew it well. It was a fine address, with magnificent town houses that fronted on an open square. Houses there were difficult to come by, because of their desirability, and they were expensive to maintain. “Our host is a wealthy gentleman, then?”

  Rannel hesitated. “Our hostess,” he said at last. “Frankly, mon vieux, I was not sure whether I wished your company tonight.”

  “Indeed?”

  “She is a charming lady, very dear to my heart.” He indicated his lovelock, tied with a length of blue silk. “I begged this ribbon of her, that she might always know the constancy of my devotion.”

  “What have I to do with her?”

  “I am—not unmindful of your reputation, André. If Monsieur de Crillon can steal Mademoiselle de Lorme from under the very nose of Cinq-Mars—and he the reigning favorite—”

  “Nonsense! I did not steal her away. She is an old friend. I merely renewed a past acquaintance. And she has not abandoned Cinq-Mars, so what have you to fear?” By now the boat had reached the Île de la Cité and was following the right bank of the Seine, passing under bridges that joined the island to the mainland. Up ahead the bell tower of Notre Dame chimed out a solemn carillon, sending a flock of pigeons into the evening sky. “But tell me of our hostess.”

  “What is there to tell? She is proud, beautiful beyond measure. I adore her! It is enough.”

  “You have a lover’s soul—but surely there is more!”

  “Well then—she has the liveliest salon in all of Paris, because of the fineness of her mind. All the great wits and men of letters are to be found at her hôtel. I have met Corneille there, and the philosopher Pierre Gassendi with his pupil, a remarkable man by the name of Cyrano de Bergerac. Even Madame de Rambouillet has been known to leave her own salon and pay her court.”

  “How odd that I have not even heard of this new star in the social firmament!”

  “But you have not been in Paris for almost a year, n’est-ce pas? She burst upon the scene this past winter, and has been the talk of Paris ever since. There is news of her in the Gazette every week—the parties she attends, the guests she has received, even the gowns she wears!”

  André sighed, filled with the old lassitude. He was so out of touch with court affairs since Marielle’s death, and—what was worse—he no longer seemed to care. He had pursued Marion de Lorme (an easy conquest) merely to flatter his vanity, to prove to himself that he had lost none of his virility nor power to charm the opposite sex. But there was little joy in it. “What does she look like, this glorification of womanhood?” he asked idly, wondering if she would be worth the chase.

  “She is—magnificent! Her face, her form, the swell of her bosom near breaks my heart. Ah! Exquisite! Her voice is music, and when she smiles I am transported to heaven!”

  “Have you—enjoyed her favors?” asked André delicately.

  “She has never even allowed me to kiss her sweet lips, but I dream on it.”

  André burst into laughter. “Not even a kiss? Small wonder you fear my usurpation! But surely there is someone—another admirer, mayhap—a charming courtesan rarely sleeps alone!”

  The Duc de Rannel drew himself up haughtily. “You offend me, monsieur, when you mock the lady. There is not a man who does not languish at her feet, yet I’ll wager not a one has seen her bedchamber! I pray it may be so.” He sighed, the besotted lover, filled with thoughts of his beloved. “But she refuses so sweetly that the very words of denial seem a blessing from her honeyed lips.”

  Mon Dieu! thought André. The man is not only a peacock, he is most assuredly an ass, to let a woman turn his head so! “But who is she?” he said.

  “No one knows. A woman of mystery—a sweet enigma—”

  “Good God!” cried André impatiently. “But—her name? Perhaps I know the family.”

  “Her name—oh—undistinguished—there is no de in it to indicate nobility. She is simply Madame—” He stopped, misty-eyed once again. “No. She is ‘La Déesse,’ the Goddess, since the day that Simon Vouet painted her as Diana, goddess of the hunt. She owns the portrait herself, but Cardinal Richelieu—that old reprobate—is enchanted with her beauty, and would like to buy the painting for himself.”

  “She begins to interest me more and more. She is wise, she is beautiful. What more could a man want?”

  “She’s a devil as well! Playful and amusing. I promised you a lively evening; you shall not be disappointed. She delights in clever jokes. I am minded of a time at Versailles when Monsieur de Deplan had spent the evening moaning about his expanding girth and the bother of outgrowing his breeches, though it did not prevent him from eating more than anyone else there! La Déesse contrived to have his breeches spirited from his bedchamber whilst he slept, and set her seamstress to work all the night, taking in the seams by several inches! Gasping from the snugness of the fit the next morning, Monsieur de Deplan swore a solemn oath then and there to eat in moderation if le bon Dieu would only let his breeches fit again!”

  André laughed heartily. “A benign joke, and one that taught the man a lesson, I’ll wager!”

  “Sometimes the deviltry is less benign, but only when it is well deserved. Monsieur l’Abbé Gontier will not soon forget La Déesse!”

  “I know the man slightly. Sanctimonious old cleric.”

  “Yes. Championing his chastity, his celibacy at every turn. And spreading slanderous rumors about La Déesse’s virtue.”

  “If she is as discreet as you say, she had every right to be angry.”

  “But I told you, she is clever. She delights in playing a role—there are those who think she has been in the theater. She dressed as a chambermaid and went to Monsieur l’Abbé’s apartments in the Louvre—with half the court and King Louis himself hiding and listening from the antechamber. By the time we burst into the bedchamber Gontier was dandling her on his knee, his hand under her skirts, while he entreated her to look to her soul, in God’s name. It was a rare joke, more especially when Gontier found out she was the woman he had presumed to judge. But Louis was furious at the Abbé’s lechery and lack of Christian virtue, and banished him from court for a year.”

  André stirred impatiently in the boat, more and more anxious to meet this fascinating creature called La Déesse. “But if she is not nobility, who—or what is she?”

  Rannel shrugged. “Qui sait? Who knows? The unacknowledged child of royalty? The mistress of some well-placed noble? A foreign princess? She is seen frequently with one of the older gentlemen of the court. There are those who say she is his illegitimate daughter. But she is surely highborn. Her sensitivity, her refinement can only come from noble parents, whatever the answer to the mystery.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I neither think, nor care. I worship her. That is enough! Ah! Here we are at last!” The boat had pulled alongside the stone bulwark just beyond Île St. Louis, and the two men climbed the steps to the top of the quai. At Rannel’s command, one of the boatmen lit a torch and, following where the duc indicated, made his way down a narrow street to the Place Royale, André and René close behind. When they emerged into the wide square, Rannel turned to the torchbearer, placing several gold coins in his hand. “Wait here until the evening is over. We will need a ride back to the Louvre Palace—so inform your companion in the barge. There will be double this recompense on the return journey.”

  The hôtel of La Déesse was on the corner of the row of town houses, so it enjoyed the advantage of both the high windows that faced the square, and the airy casements and balconies that looked out over the side street. A footman in livery took their cloaks and
led them up a wide staircase to the large salon that blazed with lights and echoed with the sound of laughter. Some thirty or so men and women, in their best finery, milled about the room, chatting gaily with one another. Several musicians, busy tuning reeds and lutes and violins, now struck up a galliard and the couples began to drift into the center of the room to pick up the steps of the dance.

  Rannel had been frantically scanning the salon. “There she is!” he exclaimed. “La Déesse,” he explained, pointing to the far side of the room.

  André did not need to be told. Even at this distance, and with her back to them, her presence commanded the room. A tall and stately woman, with an elegant carriage, her slim-fingered hands moving gracefully as she talked to the circle of admirers who surrounded her. Her blond hair was twisted into a chignon at the back of her head, the chignon encircled by a braid. At the nape of her neck and along the edge of her face—the tantalizing corner of which André could just see—the hair had been allowed to spring free from her coiffure, and curled in beguiling ringlets. Her pale blue silk dress was fitted snugly over a waist so slender and dainty that it begged a man’s encircling arm. The bodice of the gown was cut quite low in back, even with its lace falling band; the velvety skin and the swanlike neck thus presented made André’s senses stir. Fortunate the man who planted kisses on that neck, those soft shoulders!

  He and Rannel edged their way past the dancers to La Déesse. At Rannel’s greeting she turned, her smile dazzling. André went white.

  “Gosse?” he whispered, frowning.

  Her amber eyes flickered for a second, the smile frozen upon her face; then she lowered her glance. “I am Madame Despreaux,” she said, holding out her hand to him. In a daze, he took her fingers. “René, mon cher,” she murmured, turning to Rannel, “will you present your friend?”

  “I am delighted. André, Comte de Crillon, madame.”

  André stared in disbelief. It could not be Gosse—and yet it must be Gosse, or someone as alike as Gosse to be her kin! Unsure of himself, he waited for her to speak.

  She laughed, her voice rich and musical. (Surely no one but Gosse could laugh like that!) “Ah, Monsieur de Crillon,” she said. “I thought you did not come to Paris anymore. Can you be tired at last of war? But then, they say you fight your best battles in the bedchamber.” She let her eyes scan his form and linger brazenly at his groin. “Is your—sword—as devastating as they say?”

  As several of the guests laughed at this sally, André smiled uneasily. Was it Gosse? And were her words meant to be insulting, or merely amusing? He opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it and brought her hand to his lips. Just as he was about to kiss her fingers she laughed, and in one smooth gesture she pulled her hand away and turned to Rannel.

  “René, my dearest, I have not yet greeted you!” She bent Rannel’s head down and kissed him gently on the mouth.

  André felt his face flaming red with anger and humiliation. There was no mistaking the intended slight this time! Gosse or Despreaux, the woman was a bitch! Furiously he turned on his heel and made for the door.

  Rannel hurried to join him. “Surely you are not leaving!”

  André stopped. He had never been driven from a battlefield by such a small salvo before. “No, of course not,” he said. “I shall stay for a little—to see if our hostess can be as fascinating as she is rude!”

  Rannel chuckled. “I had not thought a woman alive could discompose the great André de Crillon! And to think I feared to introduce you. I am in your debt; because of you, I won a kiss! But did I not tell you she was divine?”

  André nodded his head stiffly, then excused himself. He was languishing for a cup of wine, he said, and he had seen an old acquaintance in an alcove. And surely Monsieur de Rannel would wish to return to their hostess and pursue an association that had begun so well this evening. Rannel was delighted to pay court to La Déesse, and André was relieved to be quit of his company for a little. But though he chatted with several friends, and ate and drank, he could not take his eyes from La Déesse. She could not be Gosse, and yet—At last, unable to bear it any longer, he strode to her and, bowing deeply, invited her to dance the sarabande that the musicians had just begun to play. She curtsied and gave him her hand, allowing him to lead her to the center of the floor. They danced in silence for a few moments, while he felt his senses quickening at the woman’s allure. Her fingers were soft in his, her waist yielding to his embrace, and once, as she moved past him in the graceful pattern of the dance, she brushed against him so he caught the delicate scent of her perfumed hair.

  “Have we not met before, madame?” he said at length.

  “I scarce think so, monsieur.” She smiled wickedly, her amber eyes sparkling. “You are a soldier, and I am—not!”

  “But Rannel says you are new to Paris, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Yes.”

  “And before Paris—?”

  “Ah monsieur! That is an indiscreet question! A woman is allowed to have secrets.” She laughed aloud at the look of consternation on his face. A deep laugh, with a vibrant ring.

  “It is Gosse, isn’t it!” he burst out.

  “Gosse?” she said coldly. “Is that supposed to be a name?” Before he could reply, she let out a little shriek so the other dancers stopped and stared at them. “Have a care, monsieur!” she said sharply. “You have stamped upon my foot! By my faith, can you not dance with more grace?”

  “Forgive me,” he stammered, “I was not aware—”

  She smiled magnanimously. “Of course, monsieur.” And they resumed the dance once again. But when she let out another cry a moment later he frowned. This time—damn the contrary baggage!—he was sure he had not stepped on her foot.

  “Now, madame,” he growled, “why do you make sport of me?”

  “I, monsieur? I only wished to oblige you by dancing with you, but you are too clumsy by half. And now, having crushed my poor toes, you accuse me of making sport of you!” She sighed, her mouth an unhappy pout. “Since I cannot please you, I shall leave you to find another partner!” So saying, she turned away from him and limped off the floor. He stood there, feeling like a fool, half minded to storm after her and wring her neck. He was aware that several of the guests were snickering at his abandonment; with as much pride as he could muster, he marched to a sideboard and helped himself to a cup of wine.

  An old friend of his, an aging comtesse, sailed up to him, fanning herself briskly and grinning with delight. “Upon my word, André! What have you done to Delphine to earn such scorn?”

  “Delphine? Her name is Delphine?”

  “Of course. Delphine Despreaux. Did you not know?”

  He shook his head. “No—no—” and moved away distractedly. Then it was Gosse! He looked to where she was laughing gaily with admirers, seeing her with new eyes. Mon Dieu! How beautiful she was become, graceful and elegant, polished and refined. It seemed too good to be true, to find Gosse again, after he thought he had lost her forever. Then he frowned. He was overjoyed to see her again—why did she not share that joy? Why did she pretend not to know him, and deliberately humiliate him? He looked at her again. Under the beauty, the grace, there was a coldness that had not been there before. Her guests admired her, she accepted their praise with modesty. But where was Gosse’s fire?

  He watched her for a while, following her at a distance as she moved among her guests, drifted in and out of small rooms that adjoined the large salon, stopped for a glass of wine and a bite of food in a fine chamber that had been set aside for dining. Finally, seeing her alone for a few moments, he moved quickly to her and took her by the elbow.

  “I must talk to you,” he said.

  She laughed merrily, but the sound had a hollow ring to it. “What can you possibly have to say to me, monsieur?”

  “Shall we talk in front of your guests, Delphine?” The name deliberately stressed.

  She shrugged and led him into a small room that appeared to be a library, the walls lin
ed with books. Above the mantel was a magnificent portrait of Delphine, regal and beautiful in flowing magenta draperies. Simon Vouet’s goddess. “Well?” she said, closing the door behind her and tapping one dainty foot impatiently on the floor.

  “It is Gosse, of course,” he said.

  She stared at him, her eyes like cold amber. “Gosse is gone.”

  “And Master Fresnel?”

  She looked stricken and turned away. “An accident at sea,” she said softly.

  He touched her arm in sympathy. “Gosse—”

  “There is no Gosse!” she said fiercely, swirling away from him. “I am Delphine!”

  He shook his head. “I cannot believe such a change in you.”

  “How so changed?” she said with a sneer. “I did not like you then—I do not like you now! Where is the change?”

  “Gosse would have shown her anger, not hidden behind sweet smiles and a tongue like a sword.”

  “Gosse was a fool!”

  “Gosse was an honest fool, then. Far more appealing than the celebrated Madame Despreaux who bewitches half the men in Paris and publicly insults and humiliates those she does not like! I wonder if Monsieur l’Abbé Gontier says a prayer for you now and again?”

  She eyed him coldly. “Are you trying to goad me into a temper?”

  He frowned, thinking about it. “Yes,” he said at last, “perhaps I am. To see what remains of Gosse.” He strode to her and took her roughly by the shoulders, then smiled sheepishly, softening. “Nom de Dieu! Don’t you know how glad I am to see you? I have thought of you often these past two years.”

  “Have you?” she asked. Her expression was unreadable.

  “Yes. And now that I have found you again, I shall not let you go!” He held her at arms’ length, shaking his head in delighted wonder, his eyes appraising and approving. “Who would have thought—little Gosse—” He lifted her fingers to his lips, inclined his head in a courtly nod. “By your leave, Madame Despreaux, I would spend every waking hour with you!”