The Star of Versailles

by Catherine Curzon

  “And what happens now?” William asked, thoughts flying. “He grows up an English boy and no one is any the wiser?”

  “Your king has promised us protection,” Claudine explained, the boy reaching to clamber into Gaudet’s arms, where he was happily received by the playwright, who, William noticed, had shed one or two fresh tears. “François will be raised there in safety until the time comes when he might be restored, for they say Louis-Charles is wasting away in his prison. Until that day, his uncle”—her lips twitched distastefully—“Louis Stanislas, God help us, will serve as Regent. Perhaps it might even convince his wife to brush her hair in celebration.”

  She is very much a Gaudet, after all, despite the black and bun.

  “His existence must be revealed to no one outside this room. There are plenty of people who have reason to want this little boy to vanish, and not only those who cry revolution,” Dee told them. “As far as we are all concerned, the Star of Versailles, as the prince calls his diamond, never made it as far as Le Havre—it was lost when Tessier stormed the Plamondon home. Agreed?”

  William knew that it was not something to agree to lightly, the whole matter one that he found disturbing for a number of reasons he couldn’t quite place.

  “I have no need of money.” Gaudet waved a hand, seemingly far less troubled as he told Dee, “I shall find some foundlings in need of it instead.”

  “I do not want the money,” William decided, getting to his feet. “And you give me no choice but to keep your secret.” With that he bowed politely to Claudine before making his way to the door and through it, thoughts racing.

  “What’s going on?” Bastien leaped to his feet from where he sat outside the room, crunching another apple. “What’s the news?”

  “No news.” William shook his head, certain that what he needed was air. “No news at all.”

  The door opened again and Gaudet made his tentative way into the hallway to ask, “Are you terribly angry, chérie?”

  “Angry?” William frowned, certain that was the one emotion he was not feeling. “No, not angry.”

  “Bastien,” Harriet whispered, beckoning the boy along the hallway and out of sight as Gaudet peered at William, reaching for his hand.

  “That child”—he accepted the touch gratefully—“knowing who he is—that’s a big responsibility.”

  “Not,” Gaudet told him softly, “when it is shared.”

  “I am not used to that,” William heard himself say. “Sharing.”

  He thought again of the gambling debt he had enforced, the young man who had taken his own life rather than choose shame and ruin, then he shook his head, sure he would never be a man who shared anything.

  “But when one is in love, one shares everything,” Gaudet whispered tenderly. “And I love you, so what I have is yours, too.”

  The words made William freeze, his grip on Gaudet’s hand tightening as he wondered how he had reached this, the urge to tell Gaudet that he was mistaken almost overwhelming. “You can’t—”

  “You do not have to love me in return.” Gaudet shrugged with affected casualness. “But I love you, nonetheless.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I feel frightened and blessed and as though I am not on the run for my life, but somewhere near Heaven.” He raised his free hand to William’s cheek. “And you are my every thought.”

  “I don’t deserve this.” William reached to cover Gaudet’s hand with his own. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  “Well, naturally,” Gaudet told him and William had to laugh, his gaze locking with Gaudet’s as the laughter faded, leaving them inches apart. “I thought I had lost you in Harfleur.”

  “I’m here,” he murmured in reply, still not quite able to believe it. “And I’m not going anywhere, though I don’t think that your sister likes me.”

  “She doesn’t like anybody.” Gaudet stole a lingering kiss. “Do you like me a little? Or a little bit more than a little?”

  “A lot more”—he found his hand in Gaudet’s hair—“than a little.”

  “When you have seen my bed and my room full of clothes, you will want no other,” Gaudet teased. “And wait until I show you my collection of shoes, and I haven’t even mentioned my boots. Then there are my rings, though I have already given you a diamond.”

  “I haven’t given you anything,” he realized.

  “Your handkerchief…”

  “That is true.” He kissed Gaudet again.

  “I am so glad to have found you,” Gaudet told William and he nodded, somewhat forgetting where they were as he kissed Gaudet deeply. “And just wait until I get you alone.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “I thought I might start by kissing every gorgeous inch of you,” he said conversationally, brushing his hand through William’s hair. “Then we’ll see where we go from there.”

  William found himself unable to reply. Instead he concentrated on kissing Gaudet hungrily, several ideas for future liaisons already in his mind.

  “Could we tell them,” Gaudet asked as they broke for air, “that the patient needs to be in bed?”

  “I think,” William responded gravely, “that I am feeling somewhat lightheaded.”

  With Gaudet’s most charming manner deployed in the direction of Madame Roucelle, they were soon upstairs to a room so tiny it was barely the size of Gaudet’s fabled shoe cupboard. It was filled with a bed that had probably, like much of the furniture in the house, been liberated from a grander abode and, as the door closed, Gaudet said, “They should forget the house and move into the bed, it’s bigger.”

  William was sure he had murmured an agreement, holding Gaudet close again for a long, deep kiss.

  “I love you, chérie, so much…”

  “And I love you,” William whispered in turn, feeling his ears flush. “I want you.”

  “I am yours,” Gaudet promised, meeting his gaze. “And only yours.”

  Ignoring the pain of his healing wounds, William urged Gaudet onto the bed, mouth hungry on his. As Gaudet slid his hands over William’s back he let himself forget where they were, safe in the knowledge that they had each other.

  “What do you want?” Gaudet asked gently.

  “Make love to me.”

  The words brought William up short, gaze holding Gaudet’s before he murmured, “It would be an honor.”

  Gaudet gave a soft sound of contentment, slipping his palms beneath William’s shirt, then the world seemed to stop delightfully once more, long moments lost to kisses as they undressed each other.

  “I am no longer pale,” Gaudet realized breathlessly. “What will people think?”

  “That you are utterly glorious,” William decided, ducking to let his lips caress across Gaudet’s chest.

  “I shall have to cover myself in powder.” Gaudet lost the thought in a sigh, combing his hand through William’s hair.

  “I’ll help,” he promised, heart quickening in response to Gaudet’s whispered words of love and he realized, with something close to contentment, that he would have to get used to compliments now. He would probably, William reasoned, have to get used to Gaudet’s very enthusiastic ministrations, too, not to mention the Frenchman’s talent for removing his clothes with him barely even noticing he had done so until Gaudet was touching his bare skin.

  “It’s funny.” William sighed. “You’ve quite taken my mind off the pain.”

  “And you have taken my mind off fashion—so it must be love.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Let’s see it then,” Roucelle said, sitting in what looked like a dangerously insubstantial chair for his bulk as thunder raged overhead.

  With a glance toward François, who slept on the rug before the fire, Claudine stepped toward the table and loosened the ties on a small velvet bag. She tipped it up gently and, as one, every eye in the room seemed to focus on the single, flawless diamond that tumbled onto the table, Bastien muttering a most unc
hildlike oath at the sight.

  Roucelle darted out his plump fingers and seized the gem. He cupped it in his hand as he pressed a jeweler’s glass to his eye. Squinting, he turned the diamond this way and that, occasionally muttering something unintelligible or tapping it here and there with a yellowing fingernail.

  “Fit for a queen, indeed. I never thought I’d see it.” Roucelle shook his head, letting the glass tumble from his eye to the tablecloth. “Professor, you were not wrong.”

  “Well”—Dee held out his hand and Roucelle placed the diamond there—“I get it right on occasion.”

  “The diamond,” Claudine explained, “is as priceless as they say, but it meant nothing to the queen, nothing at all.”

  “While the gentlemen were resting, I made contact with Captain Pascaud,” Dee commented innocently. “The first dawn after the storms break, we sail for England.”

  Bastien’s gaze moved over to the chair where François slumbered, wondering what life must be like to be a child like that, one with such a family to call one’s own. Bastien tightened the tricolor flag that he wore as a sash and whispered to Adam, “I’ll be back in a bit, boss.”

  “You don’t go far,” Adam replied, scrubbing the boy’s hair affectionately.

  Bastien pushed the door open and darted out into the rain, his pace slowing to a walk when he made his way through the streets, head bowed. He barely noticed the woman who emerged from the tavern opposite to walk alongside him. He was lost in his thoughts until he heard Sylvie’s voice say, “Hello, son.”

  With wide eyes, he turned, tears clouding his vision. She lowered the scarf that covered her face, and he whispered, “Ma?”

  “Bastien.” She stooped to embrace him before she drew him into a side street. “You didn’t think your old ma would leave you to it?”

  He shook his head, overwhelmed at the sight of her, by the fate he had imagined befalling his mother at the hands of Tessier, and yet here she was, unharmed and vibrant as ever.

  “He doesn’t know I’m out,” Sylvie whispered, searching his face. She seemed to read his very mind. “He’d kill me if he did.”

  At that, Bastien shook his head, clinging to her skirt as he whispered, “We can go now, Ma—go and tell the others and—” It seemed so obvious to him that he could hardly understand why they were still standing there. He took her hand, tugging it helplessly. “They’ll help you, Adam and the professor.”

  Sylvie shook her head, gaze darting around. “You think they’d let me go free when we got to England? No, boy, you’ve got to help me.”

  “What?”

  She kneeled before him and whispered, “I need that diamond.” Sylvie was obviously ready for his shocked response and she silenced his blustered complaints, saying, “No, no, listen. They don’t need it, do they? All they want is to get to England, so why not?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I won’t take—”

  “If I haven’t got that diamond by the time they leave, I’m dead.” Sylvie’s eyes were fixed on him, unblinking, and he thought then that she would never betray him, this mother who had been through so much. “Bring it to me and we can go back to Paris. He don’t care about nothing but the Star. You’ve got to get it for me.”

  “I’m going to tell them, get Dee’s help,” Bastien declared, sure that someone would know how to solve this awful problem, that they could somehow save his mother. “He’s nobody to fear anymore, is he?”

  At that, Sylvie drew back, her face slackening. “You don’t know him,” she said fretfully. “Fetch it for me, please.”

  Bastien nodded earnestly and threw his arms around her neck, holding her closer than he had in years.

  “I love you,” he whispered in a small voice, hearing her return the sentiment. “And I’ll get it.”

  “Good lad.” Sylvie smiled. “Now go on, I don’t know how long he’ll be out. You can find me in the rooms behind Bertrand’s butcher. Bring it my way tonight and then we’ll take the bloody thing and be gone together.”

  Bastien simply gazed at his mother, heart wrenched as he found himself rooted to the spot. She wouldn’t leave him, he told himself, yet not so long ago, hadn’t she done just that? He remembered the pain of waiting in the pig field for the mother who never came, eyes full of bitter tears, his heart torn in two.

  Not again, she wouldn’t.

  And what would Adam think?

  But if my ma’s life depends on it…

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Good lad.” Another kiss and she whispered, “Now go.”

  Bastien returned to Roucelle’s house at a far slower pace than he had departed from it, watching the ground sadly where the thick mud slurped and pulled at his boots. The sun was setting by the time he pulled open the door, his shoulders sloping when he dropped into a seat at the table and stared at Roucelle’s sleeping face.

  “Bastien,” Gaudet called in welcome as he hurried downstairs, greeting the boy with a smile. “Where have you been?”

  “Thinking about Ma,” he muttered, wanting to tell the man who had shown him such kindness exactly what had happened, what she had asked of him.

  I owe you all so much, he knew, but she’s my mum.

  What the bloody hell would you do?

  “If I come to England, what’s going to happen to me?” Bastien already knew the answer to the question, of course, but he wanted somebody to make the decision for him, to say the right thing.

  “Monsieur Adam has given you the key to his home. You are practically brothers,” Gaudet told him kindly, no doubt about that, and when he spoke again, it was with humor. “And if you fancied something more exciting, there is my own house. Whatever you wished, you would have a family to call your own.”

  Bastien nodded, feeling his lower lip tremble for a horrible moment before Gaudet saved his embarrassment and asked, “Supper?”

  For some reason that was the thing that pushed Bastien over the edge, tears suddenly coursing from his eyes. He could hardly speak, deep shudders running through his thin body and he sobbed, “My ma—”

  “What is it?” Gaudet put his hand on his shoulder and Bastien bolted forward, resting his face against the playwright’s shoulder just in time for Dee and William to emerge from the kitchen. “Bastien, tell me all.”

  It all came out then. Bastien finally told them what had happened, how his mother had reappeared and appealed to him to steal the diamond. As he talked, Gaudet, Dee and William said nothing but simply listened, occasionally nodding, but no more than that. He gabbled until he had nothing left to say, collapsing back into his chair.

  “Well,” Gaudet mused, folding his arms over his chest and glancing over at Dee. “We can’t have this.”

  “Give her something else.” William shrugged. “Tessier’s never seen it and she won’t know either. I’m sure you,” he gave Gaudet an indulgent look, “have something suitably flamboyant to hand.”

  “But what about Ma?” Bastien looked from one to the other, searching for any hint of optimism. “If he catches on, he’ll kill her.”

  “We’ll kidnap her,” was Dee’s response, as though it was the obvious option. “Leave her with no choice but to join her boy in England.”

  “Don’t worry, Bastien,” William decided and Gaudet agreed with a nod. “Your mother will come to no harm as long as she stays with us. There is safety in numbers, after all.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Trusting little lamb.

  Just like his dad.

  Sylvie had no doubt, as she waited, that the boy would come—where else could he go, after all? One thing she was utterly certain of in life, along with the selfishness of men and the fact that anyone would do anything if the price was right, was Bastien’s loyalty. He had better hurry, Sylvie thought. Vincent never stays out for long.

  Her mind roamed and she thought again of the diamond, what it would mean when she finally had it in her grasp. She could almost feel it, imagining the weight and sparkle of the all too elusi
ve jewel that would, at last, be hers.

  There came a soft knock at the door, the rhythm familiar from the boy’s scouting missions in Paris, and Sylvie hurried to admit her son. He looked haunted, as though he had not slept.

  He’ll be all right, she told herself. Time to make his own way.

  “I got it,” Bastien exclaimed as he crossed the threshold, panting for breath.

  “Show me,” she demanded. “Show it to me now.”

  The boy proudly held out the velvet pouch. She snatched it from him, heart hammering, hands shaking. Sylvie tugged at the ties of the bag, the diamond heavy on her palm a moment later. She found herself almost speechless, certain that her life was about to change beyond her most extravagant dreams.

  “Now get your gear and let’s go.” Bastien reached to take her hand. “Come on, Ma.”

  “About that.” She held up a finger to pause him, the final part of her plan yet to be put into action.

  In response, he frowned, asking in a suspicious tone, “Yeah?”

  “You’re not coming,” Sylvie told Bastien, caressing the diamond with the pad of her thumb before slipping it back into the pouch.

  Bastien’s face fell, eyes widening as he reached for her again with a small hand and whispered, “You what?”

  “That lot, they’ve taken you in—you’ll get on much better in life if you stay with them now. They won’t see you want for nothing, especially if you’re alone.”

  “But…” His hand followed her own even as she shifted it away from his reach. “You’re my ma…”

  “And you’re better off without me.” Sylvie pocketed the diamond, wondering why he couldn’t see the sense in it. “You’ll thank me for this one day, just you see.”

  “You’re my mother,” Bastien shouted, voice cracking. “You can’t just say ‘live with them’ and run off with a bloody diamond.”

  “Well I have said it.” Sylvie’s voice rose and she saw the look of dumbfounded horror on his face. “Now you bloody well do as you’re told this one time, you hear?”

  “They said you was bloody rotten—I bet you sold Thierry out, too.” He reached for the jewel, Sylvie lifting it high over her head, far out of his reach. “You bloody old cow.”