Delphine

by Sylvia Halliday

  She smiled up at him, her eyes half closed and seductive. “And would you like to kiss me?” she murmured.

  He gazed deeply at her, feeling the blood pounding in his temples. Her lips were sweetly enticing, her heaving bosom—peeping immodestly above her low-cut bodice—invited his burning lips. “By my faith,” he whispered, “but you are a beautiful woman,” and bent his mouth to hers.

  “Wait!” she said, pushing him away. “Come!” She groped for his hand. While he yet wondered what was amiss, she led him back to the large salon. She clapped her hands and the musicians stopped their playing. “Listen!” she cried to her guests, who gathered around, wondering what new surprise the always delightful La Déesse had in store for them. “I have a riddle,” she said. “You must name the game and the player. Now. The player collects four hearts—though two are undisclosed to the player—captures a king, and discards a knave. Who is the player? What is the game?”

  “Name of God, Delphine, what is this?” growled André.

  “Piquet!” cried one of the guests. “The game is piquet!”

  Delphine shook her head. “No. Not piquet. The game is not a game of cards.”

  “There was a king,” said another. “Chess?”

  “Not with hearts, mon Dieu!” There were various calls and suggestions, while Delphine smiled benignly and André scowled.

  At last Delphine held up her hands to still her guests. “I shall tell you,” she said. “The player is myself—the game is love. Look you,” she said to the chorus of surprised voices. “There is Louis—he is the king, by the grace of God. He has been captured by Monsieur de Cinq-Mars who, in his turn, has been captured by Mademoiselle Marion de Lorme. I have met neither Cinq-Mars nor Mademoiselle de Lorme—the two undisclosed hearts, n’est-ce pas? De Lorme, that charming woman, has—as all of Paris must know by now!—been captured by the gentleman here, Monsieur le Comte de Crillon.” She counted on her fingers. “Louis, Cinq-Mars, de Lorme, Crillon. That makes four captured hearts, two of which are unknown to me.”

  “But how have you collected them?”

  “Why—Monsieur de Crillon, of course! I have conquered him at our first meeting.” And here she smiled sweetly at André. “How flattering of you to say such charming things to me, mon cher. In so doing you have helped me to capture all four hearts, so to speak, since it is an unbroken chain of love from Crillon to Louis! And there you have the answer to the riddle!”

  There was delighted applause and cries of bravo, and several guests kissed Delphine’s hand and complimented her on her cleverness.

  “A moment,” said André through clenched teeth. “The riddle is not quite done! Am I also the knave that you have discarded?”

  She reached up and patted him on the cheek, charming and patronizing all at the same time. “Perhaps not. The game is up to you, knave.”

  “By my faith!” he said, his eyes burning in fury. “You are, without a doubt, madame, the most—”

  “Tut, tut, monsieur! Will you insult my hospitality by an unseemly show of bad temper? For shame! You have eaten my food and drunk my wine, and now you would rail at me for a simple jest. Has no one ever taught you manners? René, my love,” turning to Rannel, who had joined the group, “take Monsieur le Comte home. He bores me.” She did not wait for a rejoinder from André, but snapped her fingers to the musicians and stepped out to the center of the room, choosing a dancing partner and smiling dazzlingly at him as they went through their paces. The smile held even as André stormed from the room, and the dances were finished and the last guests had mercifully departed; only then did she sag, dropping her face tiredly into her hands, massaging her throbbing temples.

  “Have I not told you half a score of times that you cannot forever drive yourself at this frenzied pace?”

  Delphine turned to the Duc de Janequin. “Bernard! I thought you had gone home long since.”

  “I fell asleep,” he said, shamefaced. “I cannot keep up with your lively doings. Nor can you, from the look on your face! I shall leave, and let you get to sleep.”

  “Wait. I—I need a little extra money this month, if you would be so kind—”

  “The country house again?”

  She nodded.

  “When shall I ever see it? What do you do there, I wonder, when you leave Paris for days at a time?” He laughed ruefully. “Methinks I knew more about you in the old days when you were telling me lies and half truths than I do now when I may call you friend! You are almost as much a mystery to me as you are to the court gossips. I know nothing of your family, your background, your life before you met Gilles.”

  “Forgive me, Bernard. There is so much I would forget.”

  “And much that is not the concern of a prying old man?” He smiled warmly. “I shall send Braudel around in the morning with money for you. He will rage as usual, but I think he is getting quite used to the arrangement. And after all, there are no heirs to protect. Go to your country house, your—someone else, and with my blessing.”

  “You never ask where I go, who I see. Why?”

  “I think I do not wish to know if it is a lover. And besides, when you return you are a little more at peace, mayhap, your soul a little less tormented.”

  “I owe you so much,” she said, going to stand by the window. “I should have saved Gilles’s money when he died last year, and managed my own affairs like a good little bourgeoise.”

  “What do you owe me? I reclaimed my sister’s diamonds—and it would please me if you would wear them more often—and I have a sweet and charming companion who is delightful company, who brightens my days and shares with me the theater and good books, who lets me see life through her young eyes. You are wife and daughter and tender friend all at once. You owe me nothing.”

  She turned from the window, wringing her hands. “Do you want me?” she burst out.

  “Mon Dieu! You never asked before. Why now?”

  “And you have never done more than kiss my hand. Why? Am I—undesirable? Less a woman than you would want?”

  “Oh, my dear. You must be bedeviled tonight to ask such a question. I am an old man. My passions have long since cooled. But you—you cannot truly think yourself unwomanly! There have been too many fevered swains around you for you to doubt yourself. And yet—and I would take an oath on it—I judge you to be as chaste and untouched, for all your coquetry, as you were when first we met.”

  She laughed bitterly. “I was scarcely a virgin!”

  “But I think you were a virtuous wife, despite your unhappiness with Gilles. So I ask you yet again—why do you now offer yourself to me?”

  “Damn it!” she burst out. “Do you want me?”

  He smiled gently. “Do you want me?” Delphine turned away, her lip trembling. “My dear child,” he went on, “if I need a woman to spread her legs for me, I can find one! But I would not have you for gratitude’s sake, nor out of duty and obligation.”

  “Ah Dieu,” she sighed, near tears. “I feel so old sometimes.”

  “And filled with torment—”

  “Yes.”

  “And never more so than tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because—vengeance is mine—at last. Because my enemy is delivered to me at last!”

  “And who is your enemy?” he asked gently.

  She turned to him, her eyes blazing. She opened her mouth to speak, to say the hated name of André de Crillon, then found that she could not. The fury in her eyes faded to pain, and she turned to stare out the window. When at last she spoke, it was an anguished whisper torn from her throat.

  “Love,” she said softly. “My enemy is love.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  They met at the theater two days later, though it was not truly an accident. André had discovered that the Duc de Rannel was taking Delphine to the Hôtel de Bourgogne to see a play by Corneille. He had bought himself a seat on the stage, and from there he could look out over the audience on the open floo
r below and the curtained boxes above. It was not difficult to guess where Delphine was—the stir of cavaliers in a side box made it clear. At the intermission, when most of the gentlemen had come downstairs seeking refreshments, André waited until Rannel had left to fetch wine for Delphine, then slipped quietly into her box. Rannel would not return soon—André had already paid a charming soubrette a lordly sum to waylay the duc and keep him from returning.

  “Delphine,” he said softly, and was surprised to see her wince as she turned and spied him in the shadow of the curtains. He had thought her imperturbable, totally in control of her life, her feelings.

  “André! Mon cher! How delightful to see you again.” She smiled, the smile as false as her words.

  “Don’t,” he said wearily. “René says you enjoy playing a role. I beg you—can you just be Delphine for a little while?” Frowning, he sat in the chair opposite her.

  “La! André,” she laughed, “the play is serious enough! Must you gaze at me so solemnly when I would have joy?”

  He sighed in exasperation. “Gosse would not have played so falsely with me.”

  “I shall tell you yet again—” the golden eyes cold and distant “—Gosse is gone. No one knows of her. I—I should prefer it to remain so.”

  His mouth twitched in mockery. “The creature of mystery? The noblewoman in disguise?”

  “Yes, if you will. I play the part well, do I not?”

  “Indeed,” he said uncomfortably, remembering her triumph over him in her salon. “And the Despreaux? Is it as artificial as the rest of you?” He had meant it to be cruel, hoping to find a spark of passion in her, if only in anger.

  But she eyed him coldly. “The name is my own. Despreaux was my husband.”

  He swallowed his surprise. “Was? Did you cast him aside like a discarded knave, to be treated with scorn when you meet again? To be mocked and taunted?”

  She sighed. “The man is dead. Mon Dieu, how tiresome you can be—like a petulant child! Is it so difficult for the great Crillon to be bested by a woman?”

  He took a deep breath, willing his anger to cool. Gosse’s temper might be gone, but she had not lost her power to infuriate him. Now it was her words, not her behavior, that rankled, and in some ways it was harder to deal with her. If she went to strike him, he could hold her, keep her from assaulting him, even (if his fury got the better of him) strike her back; when her words attacked him behind her benign smile, he could scarcely retaliate without seeming the brute. “Listen to me,” he said gently, taking her hand in his. “I do not know how I have offended you. I beg your forgiveness, whatever the cause of your anger. But we were friends, you and I. We laughed together on Olympie. I would have it so again between us.”

  “Olympie is a long time ago. I can scarce remember it.”

  He lifted her fingers to his lips, kissing the soft flesh delicately scented with orange-water, then smiled warmly at her. “And have you forgotten the night in my cabin? I have not.”

  She shrugged. “It was just—what it was, and nothing more. A bit of deviltry. Gosse was a devil, a savage who tormented you with her games—you said so yourself, many a time!”

  He stood up, his face drained of color. “A game? A game? The woman in my bed that night was a creature of passion and fire! Is it my memory that is faulty—or yours? Nom de Dieu! Why did you come to my cabin that night?”

  She laughed, the deep timbre harsh with contempt. “Curiosity.” He glared at her, his eyes blazing in fury. But his pride was in tatters and she knew it. Does it hurt, André? she thought. Does it hurt to suffer? She delivered the final knife thrust. “Yes. Curiosity. But I might have saved myself the bother.”

  He growled under his breath and made for the door. It opened before he reached it, and René de Rannel entered. The duc glanced from André’s face to Delphine’s and laughed nervously. “Have I interrupted a—rendezvous?” he asked, the sharp edge of jealousy in his voice.

  “Don’t be a fool, René my sweet. I should be blushing if you had.”

  Rannel glanced at André’s face, the grim mouth, the angry flush that darkened his bronzed skin. “Monsieur le Comte, then. Has he been importuning you?”

  “Of course not! Why should André want to seduce me into his bed? No. We were having a pleasant chat, that was all. You see? The words did not even stir my heart.” She stood up and crossed to Rannel, lifting his hand and placing it deliberately on her bosom. He blushed and beamed, embarrassed and delighted at the same time.

  André inhaled through his teeth. “By my faith,” he said coldly, “you are—endlessly curious, madame. I wish you well,” and turned and strode from the box.

  The weather turned hot in the middle of May, and King Louis arranged for the court to be moved to Saint-Germain-en-Laye, some four or five leagues to the west of Paris. It was a small town, situated on a high promontory above the river Seine, and surrounded by a forest. The royal château, built in 1370, boasted a terrace and promenade that commanded a magnificent view of the river and the rolling hills beyond. The air was cool and sweet, the breezes marvelously refreshing after the heat of Paris. It had been a favorite retreat of the French kings for centuries; indeed, Queen Anne had spent her confinement there and had been delivered of the Dauphin Louis at Saint-Germain.

  Delphine was pleased to receive an invitation to join the court there. She only hoped André would be invited as well. She spent her days conjuring up ways to be revenged upon him, to make him suffer for all the wrongs she had suffered in the past two years. She knew he was still bewildered by her rebuff of him; she knew as well that he was drawn to her, attracted like a moth to a candle, and she smiled in satisfaction. She would play with him, humiliate him, humble him—until he begged her for mercy. And then—? She shook her head. No. She did not like to think about it. For two years her anger and bitterness had sustained her, but when at last André was humbled, destroyed, what would she have to live for? She had never allowed herself to think beyond her vengeance.

  “The petticoat is a trifle long, Charlotte. Can something be done about it?” She glanced down at the servant kneeling in front of her. She lifted the top skirt—la friponne, the hussy—so Charlotte could reach the petticoat beneath, then turned her head to scan herself once again in the large Venetian mirror. The gown was a lovely shade of pink, clear and strong, accenting her own high coloring. The underbodice was white satin, and the sleeves, from shoulder to mid-forearm, were wide strips of pink ribbon, joined only at top and bottom, so the satin showed through. There were rosettes of pink ribbon at her waist and the unexpected flash of silver braid trimming the front of the bodice and the hemline of la secret, the underskirt. The wide white falling band and deep cuffs were edged with lace scallops. On her feet were rose silk stockings and dainty brocaded shoes with high cork heels. Mon Dieu! she thought, eyeing herself, what a contrast to the somber dresses she had worn as Gilles’s wife! This gown would turn André’s head! She tugged at the bodice. “And can you make this a bit lower, Charlotte?” She smiled disarmingly. “I wish to appear a little more—wicked!”

  There was a knock on the door. Charlotte rose to her feet and ushered in Monsieur de Janequin. He limped slowly toward Delphine, beaming his approval of her costume. “Have you decided after all to buy a new dress for your stay at Saint-Germain?”

  Delphine motioned Charlotte away. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed Janequin softly on the cheek. “Good morrow, Bernard. Why do you delight in spending so much money on me?”

  “That I may bask in your radiance!” he said.

  “Do you think, when we are at Saint-Germain together, that all the court will say,” and here she affected a pompous tone, “‘That is a glorious gown that Monsieur de Janequin has paid for?’”

  “Indeed, yes,” he said solemnly, but his eyes twinkled, enjoying their banter.

  “Then you may not come with me to Saint-Germain, for this gown has been given to me for nothing by Mademoiselle Bijou, the dressmaker in the Place Dauphine, on condi
tion that I make a point of telling all my friends where the gown has come from.”

  “All doors open to youth and beauty.” He sighed in mock dismay. “Very well, I shall not go with you to Saint-Germain!”

  She laughed. “I hear that Louis is planning fireworks. You must show me the best place on the promenade to watch them from.”

  “No,” he said. “Truly, I shall not be going to Saint-Germain. I came to tell you so.”

  She frowned. “I shall miss your sweet company, Bernard. But why?”

  “Do you remember I told you about that dear lady of my younger days, Louise de Trémont?” He beamed. “I met her the other evening at a supper Braudel took me to. I think it must be twenty years—we were both married, but—it was a brief moment of joy—”

  “And you have met her again! Oh Bernard! How glad I am for you.”

  “And she is widowed. She will not come to Saint-Germain. She must stay in Paris to conclude some business.”

  “Then stay as well—and court your charming Louise.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Of course not!” And how could she tell him that she had counted on him at Saint-Germain? René was off in Bordeaux visiting a cousin, and several of her most devoted followers were fighting in the Netherlands. She would have no shield against André. Are you afraid of him? Copain had asked her that once. And she feared that beyond the sophisticated Parisienne, the Delphine in command of herself and her life, the woman who would be revenged, lurked the vulnerable innocent who trembled in his presence. Stay with me! she nearly cried aloud to Janequin. Stay with me!

  The persistent rain beat against the leaded panes of the château at Saint-Germain. For two days now it had rained, and the court, bored with one another, with the confinement, had grown restless. Louis had quarreled with Cinq-Mars and sent him back to Paris in disgrace, then retired to his own apartments to sulk.