Suddenly exhausted, Milady dropped into one of the chairs by the table. She picked half-heartedly at the selection of fruit and cheese Aramis set in front of her.
“How’s your head today?” he asked, joining her and eating with considerably more gusto than she was.
“Improving,” she replied tiredly. “Slowly.”
“If you’ve no other plans to set in motion before this evening, you should try to get some rest,” he told her. “We’ll have a long night ahead of us, assuming the salons are anything like they used to be in the days before the plague.”
“You’ve attended them before, then?” Milady asked. “I had wondered.”
“As a young chevalier in Paris, yes,” he said. A look of nostalgia passed over his face. “There was usually a place for a fresh-featured young man at the feet of some grand dame of society. Especially a fresh-featured young man with a fine reading voice and no shame when it came to reciting risqué love poetry.”
“Why is it that I have no trouble whatsoever picturing the scene?” Milady asked wryly.
“Perhaps I should bring along my French translation of The Song of Solomon tonight...”
“Perhaps you should. That sounds like suitably godly reading material for a priest at a salon,” Milady said.
“If you think so, you have obviously never read it in French,” Aramis replied. “It’s all perfumed mounds and secret gardens and lustful longing. I think you’d find it sufficiently scandalous. Now, however, I must go see to my students, and attempt to placate poor Bazin.”
“Perhaps you should try reading him some poetry,” Milady said, ignoring Aramis’ look of censure. “Very well, I will see you back here at sunset. We should leave by the time the bells ring for Vespers.”
* * *
Milady slept poorly for a few hours and rose as the shadows of evening began to overtake the room. Lighting candles, she washed in the basin and dressed with meticulous care, choosing the finest of the dresses Constance had liberated from the royal wardrobe. The plum-colored silk, trimmed with black lace, clung to her waist and hips before flaring into layers of elegant tulip-shaped skirts that just barely brushed the ground as she walked.
She braided and twisted her riot of long curls into a style very different from what she usually wore, and topped it with a lacquered comb of purple and gold. Chalk powder lightened her normally golden complexion to pale white, and a touch of Spanish paper heightened the blush of her cheeks. Long gloves and a gold pendant on a purple ribbon completed the ensemble.
When she emerged into the main room, Aramis was putting the finishing touches on his own appearance, twirling the ends of his mustache to fine, waxed points as he stared at his reflection in a metal serving tray propped upright on the mantel. Hearing her footsteps, he turned, and they examined each other for a moment.
“Very arresting,” he said after looking her up and down.
“Passable,” she said, doing the same to him.
Of course, it was a transparent lie. Even a decade after she’d first met the man, he was still strikingly handsome, and he was also fully aware of his own attractiveness. That didn’t mean she had to feed his vanity, however.
He smirked at her. “Ah... I am damned with faint praise. Well, we shall just have to see if a provincial arms merchant and his terrifyingly intelligent and witty wife can become the talk of Parisian society. Do you have the ruined letter?”
“Of course,” Milady said, patting a pocket in her skirt that contained the letter she had forged and soaked in water, sealed with the mysterious brass seal. “Do you have your translation of The Song of Solomon?”
“As it happens, I do,” he said, with a flash of amusement. “A gentleman must be prepared, after all.”
She had taken his earlier words about poetry reading as a jest, but she merely shook her head at him. In the years since the Black Death had ravaged the land, the character of the salons had changed markedly, becoming hives of hedonism and carnal indulgence for France’s social elite as much as gathering places for philosophical and political discussion. Perhaps scandalous readings from the Old Testament by a handsome intellectual would help them fit right in.
With a last glance into his makeshift mirror, Aramis turned to her and offered his arm. “Ready? I assume you do actually know where we’re going.”
“There are very few at court who don’t know the location of Mme de Sévigné’s salon,” said Milady. “It has, shall we say, something of a reputation.”
“I can hardly wait,” Aramis replied, deadpan.
“Just refrain from attempting to save anyone’s soul while we’re there, if you please,” she told him.
He turned so that he was looking down at her, his expression suddenly serious. “I am only concerned with saving a handful of very specific souls tonight, Milady. But those, I will see safe, whatever is required to achieve it.”
Again, something inside her wanted to turn away and hide from such an unvarnished declaration. She forced herself not to break eye contact, though, and merely said, “Then we are in perfect accord.”
The residence of M. and Mme de Sévigné was located on the Rue de Babylone near the Avenue de Breteuil. It was said, though Milady had no idea if it was true or not, that Mme de Sévigné had insisted her husband purchase property there because the idea of having a salon on a street called Babylon amused her. The building itself was old, but well maintained, and the neighborhood around it had seen something of a resurgence as more and more fashionable and well-to-do people began to congregate there.
Milady and Aramis arrived on foot—the evening being a pleasant one for the time of year, and the distance from the seminary relatively short. They were, by design, some quarter-of-an-hour early, and they took up an inconspicuous post near the well-lit portico of the residence.
Aramis seemed restless as they awaited Lavardin’s arrival... or non-arrival, as the case might be. Milady, however, believed the odds to be somewhat in their favor. Their pet pedophile had a temper, to be sure, but he was a coward at heart. And indeed, at five minutes past seven, a fine carriage came to a stop near the front door, disgorging their pale, unwilling patron onto the cobbled pavement. Beside her, Aramis breathed out slowly in relief.
“That’s one hurdle cleared,” he said, his voice pitched for her ears alone.
“Time for the actors to take their places, I’d say,” Milady said, and allowed Aramis to lead her forward into the light.
One of the actors in the scene, it turned out, was not nearly so skilled as the other two. Lavardin motioned the carriage to drive on, and looked around himself as if lost. When his eyes lit on the pair of them approaching him, his expression soured—practically the opposite of a man who had just spied his sister’s old friends.
Ah, well. With luck, they wouldn’t need him for long.
“Lord Lavardin!” Aramis hailed, the very picture of pleased recognition. “So good of you to show us around tonight. You remember my wife, Charlotte...”
Milady stretched out her hand and Lavardin took it in limp fingers, lifting it reluctantly to his lips as one might do if asked to kiss a rotten fish. She curtseyed prettily in response, her own skin crawling at the brief contact, even through the material of her gloves.
“It’s been too long, Your Lordship,” she said.
Lavardin’s expression conveyed his disagreement with the sentiment, but he pasted on a sickly smile and mumbled some vague agreement.
“So, this is one of the famous Parisian salons,” Aramis said, taking control of the situation. “I must say, Charlotte has been on to me for years about coming to Paris and mingling with the intelligentsia.”
“One does so crave the occasional elevated discussion,” she replied, willing to give as good as she received from her irreverent, temporary “husband.”
“Ah!” Aramis exclaimed, raising a hand to his breast as if shot. “You see what I am up against. Let us waste no more time, then, for the evening is chill and inside promises many m
ore delights than this breezy portico.”
“Yes. Fine.” Lavardin’s mouth pressed into a tight, tense line and he indicated the open doorway ahead of them.
An attractive footman greeted them with a bow inside the entrance. “Good evening, Lord Lavardin,” said the young man.
“Good evening, Benoît,” Lavardin said. “I’ve brought some... people... with me.”
Milady hid her sigh of disgust. Benoît maintained his neutral expression, but confusion was nibbling at its edges. Again, Aramis stepped in to fill the breach.
“Good evening,” he said. “I am René d’Herbault, and this is my wife, Charlotte. We are visiting Paris from our home in Blois, and I’m afraid we rather imposed upon Lord Lavardin and asked him to show us around. Charlotte and I are both childhood friends of His Lordship’s sister, Louise, you see.”
Poor Benoît was looking less confused and more bored after Aramis’ enthusiastic and overly detailed introduction. He glanced at Lavardin, who said, “Yes. That’s right. Childhood friends.”
The footman said, “Of course, Your Lordship. Madame, Monsieur, you are welcome to join the salon of Mme de Sévigné. Please allow me to take your cloaks, and wait here for a moment while I announce you.”
Aramis thanked him, and he and Milady stood with pleasant smiles on their faces while Lavardin eyed them from the side with poorly concealed hatred.
From inside the interior doors, they could hear Benoît announce, “The Marquis de Lavardin, and his guests, M. and Mme d’Herbault!”
The doors opened, and Lavardin led them into a beautiful, spacious atrium lined with bookshelves, several roaring fireplaces, and, incongruously, a spectacularly large, canopied four-poster bed dominating one end of the room. Several sets of eyes converged on them from around the salon, but aside from the slight surge of curiosity at the unfamiliar names, there was no noticeable pause in the ambient buzz of conversation and laughter.
The knot of people around the large, oddly placed bed seemed particularly tight, and it was there that the Marquis headed. Milady and Aramis followed along like ducklings in his wake, Milady trying to surreptitiously gauge the mood of the room and its occupants as she went. The mix was about what she would have guessed—mostly older women and younger men, with a few exceptions. All were well dressed, but not all were nobility, if her instincts were correct. Both wine and conversation flowed freely, with musicians scattered about the large, open space playing various chamber instruments.
As they approached the bed, the small crowd seemed to take notice of them and parted enough to let them through. Mme de Sévigné reclined on the mattress with a cup of wine, her eyes lighting up with interest upon seeing the new arrivals. She was dressed in a simple, loose dress covered with a dressing gown. Her hair—a mixture of brown and silver—was piled up in a riot of curls that spilled artfully down one side of her head. An improbably beautiful young man, dressed in a flowing shirt with the laces undone halfway to his navel, was curled around her lower half, looking up at the newcomers through heavy-lidded eyes as he kissed his way up the swell of Mme de Sévigné’s hip.
“Lord Lavardin,” said the salonnière. “Not only have you returned to us, you’ve brought guests!”
Lavardin took Mme de Sévigné’s hand with a hundred times more charm and grace than he had Milady’s moments before. Milady took a self-indulgent moment to picture how different his welcome would be once his perversity became common knowledge, and allowed a slow smile to tug at one side of her lips.
“Always such a gentleman, my dear Nicolas,” Mme de Sévigné said as she withdrew her hand, drawing a carefully composed pout of jealousy from the young man on the bed with her, whose chin now rested on the dip of her waist. The salonnière’s attention moved immediately to Aramis and Milady. “Now, my dears! You must introduce yourselves properly. What a lovely couple you are. And of course you must excuse my eccentricity—” She indicated the ridiculously large expanse of the bed on which she lay. “—But I find it so much more relaxing than all of that tedious standing about. Let the body rest, that the brain may work unhindered—that’s my motto.”
“Personally, I have always found that a woman is at her most beautiful and alluring when lying tousled in bed, Madame,” Aramis said, stepping forward to bow deeply over Mme de Sévigné’s proffered hand. “René d’Herbault, at your service. And this delightful creature beside me is my beloved wife, Charlotte.”
Milady refrained from rolling her eyes, either at the way Mme de Sévigné visibly preened under Aramis’ words, or at the way his hand brushed over her own shoulder in an artfully possessive gesture as he guided her forward to the edge of the bed.
Truly, the man was wasted in the priesthood.
Stepping forward with a smile, Milady curtsied and accepted a kiss on each cheek. Doing her part, she said in a slightly breathless voice, “I can’t thank you enough for allowing us to join you this evening. I’ve heard so much about the salons of Paris, but this is beyond even my imagination. We have nothing like it in Blois.”
“You are very welcome, my dears,” Mme de Sévigné said. “Very welcome, indeed. You must make yourselves at home, and meet all of my friends. Ninon! Come here for a moment, pet.”
A young woman seated in the corner with a lute stopped playing and looked up. She was perhaps twenty years of age—pretty but not stunning, with large, green eyes and a soft chin. Several men surrounded her, and she smiled seductively at them as she excused herself and brushed past to join their host.
“Yes, Aurélie?” she asked, addressing Mme de Sévigné informally. “What may I do for you?”
“Ninon, please show René and Charlotte around, and introduce them to some of our friends,” said the salonnière. “René, Charlotte, this is Ninon de l’Enclos, one of the most charming and accomplished young courtesans you will ever be pleased to meet. I can think of no one better to introduce two such lovely strangers to Parisian society.” She turned to Ninon with a wink. “Watch out for this one, though, child,” she said, flashing a teasing look at Aramis. “He’s dangerous.”
“Ah—that is my favorite kind of man, as you well know, Aurélie,” Ninon replied. The young woman flashed Milady a little smile as if they were co-conspirators; there was something about her aura of friendliness and good humor that made her impossible to dislike. Milady regarded her with keen interest. Ninon would bear watching.
Lavardin was staring at them from a slight remove with the same sour expression he’d worn earlier. Milady thought she heard him sigh in relief when Ninon ushered the two of them away toward the center of the room, and she hoped he would simply plead illness or exhaustion and leave quickly. Now that they had a foot in the door, his continued presence would be more of a hindrance than a help. She turned her attention back to their guide, who had immediately engaged Aramis in lively conversation.
“You are visitors to Paris, then, Monsieur?” Ninon asked.
“Yes, that’s right,” Aramis replied. “We’ve traveled up from Blois for a week or two to see the sights before the weather turns too bad. Charlotte has been wanting to see Paris for ages.”
“Paris is indeed a unique and unforgettable city,” Ninon said, her gaze including both of them. “How are you finding it so far, Charlotte?”
“It is everything I had hoped for and more,” Milady said. “To find someplace such as this, filled with free thinkers and dedicated to the exchange of ideas... I wish more such places existed across France.”
“Perhaps you will start your own salon in Blois when you return,” Ninon suggested.
Milady laughed as if such an idea were ridiculous. “Oh, heavens above. I wouldn’t know where to start...”
“Nonsense,” Aramis said staunchly. “If anyone could do it, my dear, it would be you.”
She allowed a wry note to enter her voice, “Yes, René, I can picture it now. Men and women coming together to discuss, in deep and meaningful terms, the way in which the alfalfa crop affects dairy prices, or how stoc
ks of wheat influence the people’s opinions toward the local council. Perhaps one of the farm lads can play the lute while we discuss it.”
Ninon laughed gaily. “Paris is indeed a different world from the countryside, it seems. Here, you are far more likely to waste an evening debating, in increasingly heated terms, how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.”
“Ah, but France needs a mixture of the practical and the philosophical in order to move forward,” Aramis said, smiling at the image she painted. “Don’t you agree?”
“Why, that is a very balanced and worldly view, monsieur,” Ninon approved. With a wink, she added, “I’m afraid you won’t fit in here at all.”
“Not to worry,” Milady said, enjoying the back-and-forth almost in spite of herself. “If things get desperate enough, he brought along a book of poetry to read.”
Ninon laughed again. “Oh, that’s perfect! Not to worry, René—you are sure to find some interested takers later in the evening. The descent into poetry readings generally follows shortly after Madame dispenses her special tea to the guests, and precedes the deterioration into complete debauchery.”
“Definitely a different world than Blois,” Aramis said.
“Yes,” Milady added, dry as dust. “In Blois, they forego the poetry readings altogether, and the debauchery generally requires some combination of ale, mead, and farm animals to really get going.”
“I can tell already that you two are going to do well in Paris,” Ninon said gaily. “Here, let me introduce you to the Marquesse de la Gervaisis and her artist friends...”
The evening passed in a flurry of introductions and lively conversations on a number of subjects. Before long, Ninon contrived to separate Aramis and Milady, directing them into groups that she thought would best suit their interests and temperaments. Milady did not protest. She was well aware that there was nothing so boring as a husband and wife clinging to each other at a social engagement, and Ninon’s intuition regarding their various interests was surprisingly sound given that neither of them were who they were claiming to be.
Book 4: The Queen's Musketeers, #4 Page 8