In the Name of the King

by A L Berridge

  I wish Father were easier to talk to. He seemed kinder when we first arrived, but I cannot help wondering if that was only because he hoped for a betrothal with André. As the days pass and still André does not come to Paris, Father is becoming cooler and cooler.

  He is wrong. André would never have forgotten me. He will have had a lot to do in the Saillie before he could leave, but I know he’ll come soon. It is only fifty-two days since he sent me the rose and I must learn to have more patience.

  Jacques Gilbert

  The Comtesse kept us hidden like lepers till we were fit to be seen in public. André wasn’t even allowed to write to Anne, and the Comtesse sent servants in plain livery to Le Pomme d’Or for the horses. I was disappointed about that actually, I wanted to make sure the girl was all right, but the servants said she seemed fine. I’d still like to have seen her, just looked at her one more time, but we weren’t allowed to see anyone till we’d been groomed like horses ourselves.

  André couldn’t understand it, he said the Comtesse had never bothered what other people thought before, but he couldn’t marry Anne without her blessing so he hadn’t much choice. We had our hands oiled and nails trimmed, and our skin rubbed with perfume till we smelt like cat’s piss. We were dressed in breeches so full it was like wearing a dress, and shirts with so much lace at the wrist you couldn’t find your fingers. The Comtesse even wanted us to wear wigs, but André threw his out of the window and said if she tried it again he’d burn it. ‘Very well, Chevalier,’ said the Comtesse. ‘Then let us hope for your sake your hair grows quickly.’

  Then Charlot did his best with what was left. He taught us how to sit and stand and even how to walk. He got in a dancing master who made us twirl round slowly while he hummed dull music between dried-up lips. I used to like dancing in Dax, everyone leaping and whirling together, but Charlot said it was different at court, we might have to dance one couple at a time with everyone looking and making snotty remarks if we got it wrong.

  Even harder was learning about literature and stuff for the salons. André didn’t mind the poetry and I liked the battles in Corneille, but that didn’t matter, Charlot was trying to teach us to say the right thing. One day we had these foul verses about how beautiful Mlle de Bourbon was, but Charlot said they were fine poetry because they’d been commissioned by Cardinal Richelieu himself. He smiled when he said it, but André sort of growled.

  There were politics wherever we looked back then, like smoke from a bonfire that left little black specks on everything. André was always poring over the Gazette for news of the war, but that stunk of it too. They had this piece praising the heroism of Cinq-Mars at Arras, which Charlot said was the editor trying to please the King, but when Arras fell there was another account that hardly mentioned Cinq-Mars at all, which Charlot said was him trying to please the Cardinal. The whole thing was just mad.

  But the worst were lessons in what Charlot called ‘society’, learning who was important and who wasn’t. Even our own title was complicated because we used to have a province of our own, which apparently put Comte de Vallon right up there with ducs. The Comtesse even had something called the ‘tabouret’ which sounded really grand, but Charlot said only meant that she could sit on a stool in the Queen’s presence. It didn’t affect me, of course, I mean bastards can’t inherit titles, but actually none of it felt real. It might have helped if I’d met the Comte himself, but he never went out much because of being poxed and having no nose, and that summer he was ill and not seeing anyone at all.

  The one thing I was good at was the fencing. Our style had got a bit unconventional through learning on our own, but Charlot seemed pleased with my progress. He was a real artist himself, of course, he’d fenced our father and uncle before we were either of us born, but André could still beat him. I was starting to think he could beat anyone, but when I said that he slanted his eyes at me and said ‘Not quite.’

  He hadn’t forgotten d’Estrada. He was mastering the main-gauche so he’d be better prepared when he next encountered a left-hander, and I knew who he had in mind. He asked Charlot to show him Spanish techniques, and I knew what that was about too. He was even determined to join a regiment on the Flanders front, because that’s where d’Estrada had been. He just wasn’t going to be happy till he’d fought the man again and beaten him.

  But the fencing gave me something familiar to do, and the rest gradually got better. I got used to being waited on and actually had a valet of my own, a handsome young Gascon called Philibert who was desperately proud of the promotion. He wouldn’t let me be familiar, but was fascinated by anything to do with battles and listened to my experiences with his mouth wide open. He’d tell me heroic stories out of books as if they were just as real, and to him I think they actually were.

  André found it harder. He was chafing to see Anne, of course, but I had an odd feeling he’d been happier in Dax, living in the Hermitage with his friends and taking his turn to sit guard on the roof. I told myself it was only the being cooped up he couldn’t stand, he’d be fine once we were allowed out, but weeks went on by and the Comtesse gave no sign.

  Then September came. We were fencing with Charlot in the courtyard one afternoon when a familiar voice shouted ‘Chevalier!’ and an elegant young man with blond curls and a coat of turquoise silk came running towards us. It was Crespin de Chouy.

  You remember de Chouy. He was the fashionable officer who brought despatches from Châtillon, the one who was always singing and thought war a great game, and judging from the enthusiastic way he hugged André he hadn’t changed a bit. He even embraced me too, but then he’d known us in the old days when we all mucked in together, he’d thought it delightfully eccentric and fun.

  Charlot said sternly ‘Do you wish to see Madame, M. de Chouy?’

  ‘Already seen her,’ said de Chouy, beaming. ‘Only a message from my mother, you know, wanting to know why she’s not been seen about, wondering if she was ill, all that. It’s been dead in town this summer, everyone at Arras.’

  André said gently ‘Didn’t you go, Crespin?’

  De Chouy’s face fell like a scolded child’s. ‘My stupid back, you know. They sent me home.’

  I remembered he’d been racked by those bastard Spaniards. I didn’t want to look too obviously but he seemed all right, I guessed it was muscles inside that got torn.

  ‘Rotten shame,’ said de Chouy. ‘I’m perfectly all right really, and to miss Arras! De Bergerac was wounded, did you hear? Santerre was there, Monsieur le Grand, the Duc d’Enghien, oh, everybody, and they sent me home.’

  He had the most innocent eyes I’d ever seen, round and blue and so trusting it was horrid to think of anyone hurting him. André grasped his arms and said ‘I bet they’re jealous of you, though. The man who saved the Saillie by keeping silent, I bet they wish they’d done that.’

  De Chouy gazed at him sort of mistily. ‘I say, do you think so? I think they think I’m an awful fool. But just wait till they hear you’re back, we must show you the town.’

  Charlot coughed delicately. ‘The Chevalier is resting after his labours, Monsieur. Madame would wish you to be discreet as to his return.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely,’ said de Chouy, looking blank. ‘Discreet, yes, absolutely.’

  I think ‘discreet’ meant something different in Paris, because only a week later we found a paragraph in the Mercure François announcing André de Roland had returned to the city the previous August. It said coyly the information would be gladly received on the Place Dauphine and wondered if at last Mlle Celeste was to be reunited with her Apollo. It added poisonously ‘After so long a delay, no doubt Mademoiselle will be wondering too.’

  ‘Anne,’ said the boy. He crushed the paper in his hands as he stood. ‘That bloody bastard play. They’re getting at Anne.’

  He strode across the salon and the servants took one look, threw the doors open and flattened themselves against the wall. I rushed after him, saying feebly ‘It’s not for much longe
r …’ but he said ‘You think I’m going to let them laugh at Anne?’ and spun off down the gallery. I followed quickly, and heard the soft unhurried steps of Charlot coming up behind me.

  The Comtesse was having her hair done. She didn’t even turn when André came crashing in, just looked at him steadily in the mirror.

  ‘Good morning, Chevalier,’ she said exquisitely. ‘Thank you, Barbe.’

  The maid dropped a hurried curtsey and legged it.

  André smacked the Mercure on the dressing table. ‘Have you seen this, Madame?’

  We watched her read it. After a moment she turned round on her stool and looked at us. ‘People talk, Chevalier, someone was bound to hear in the end.’

  ‘I have to see her,’ said André. ‘I must see Mlle Anne.’

  ‘Mlle du Pré,’ she corrected. ‘The elder girl is married now.’

  ‘You know who I mean.’

  ‘And you know what I said.’

  ‘It’s been two months now, it’s my duty to call, and you have to let me do it.’

  I’d seen him in a temper loads of times, I’d seen him yell and stamp and go red in the face, but this was different. His voice was quieter and deeper, and he stood very still.

  The Comtesse rose. ‘That is good, André. At last you are beginning to sound like a gentleman.’

  ‘Then have the goodness to let me act like one.’

  She inclined her head. ‘I shall write to the Baron and arrange a visit.’

  ‘No,’ said André. ‘This is yesterday’s paper, it won’t wait. I’m going now.’ He bowed, turned and walked out.

  Charlot said ‘You wish him stopped, Madame?’

  ‘No,’ said the Comtesse, and she sounded tired. ‘It’s my own fault, I pushed him too hard. But go after him, won’t you, Charlot? Keep him safe.’

  I tried to be reassuring. ‘He’s learned a lot, he won’t do anything silly.’

  ‘He’s already done it,’ she said. ‘He made how many, eight, ten enemies on his first evening? I had hoped to keep him here until no one could associate that rough lout with the Chevalier de Roland, but now …?’

  Then I understood. All that stuff about waiting for us to grow our hair and get nice manners, it was complete bollocks, she’d been thinking about this all along. She was doing exactly what I’d been doing myself the last four years, using anything and everything she had to protect the boy.

  I bowed to my grandmother with a new respect, and went out after Charlot.

  Anne du Pré

  Extract from her diary, dated 30 September 1640

  I know it was wrong to hope so desperately for something that was never promised, but it was still a shock to read that paper and realize how foolish I had been. André had been in Paris two months and never once called.

  I needed a proper Mass today, so Florian took me to Notre-Dame. He wouldn’t stay for the service itself, but I had my dear Jeanette for company, and I do find Notre-Dame beautiful. Jeanette says it is too dark, but I love the sun filtering through the stained glass to paint colours on the battle flags, I love the smell of incense and the way the muttering echoes from wall to wall. I prayed hard for Florian and Father and really did feel better for it, for Notre-Dame is a place for miracles.

  We had another this morning, for it was announced the Queen has indeed given birth to a second son, and joybells were rung after the service. When we stepped down on to the parvis the air was wild with their voices: Marie, Jacqueline, Gabrielle, Guillaume, Pasquier, Thibaud and the dear Sparrows, all ringing gladness in glorious, tumultuous thanks to God.

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ said Jeanette, and her hand clutched my arm. ‘Mademoiselle.’

  I could not at first see what she stared at, for the sunlight was bright after the darkness inside and my eyes are not good. Crowds of people mingled about the square, but one figure stood out because it was motionless, a young man, tall and dark, and when he saw me looking he removed his hat.

  A carriage rattled between us and I could have cried out with vexation. I stepped forward blindly, then the carriage was past and he was there in front of me, his hat in his hand and his head on one side, it was him after all, it was André.

  I never imagined it like this. I had thought he would be announced, we would sit and speak politely with Father, and I would have time to compose myself. Now I was standing like a fool with my hair blown by the wind and not a word in my head, and he bowed and said ‘Mademoiselle,’ and it was his voice.

  I was ashamed of the way my legs trembled in the curtsey, but managed to say ‘Ah, Monsieur, we heard you were back in Paris,’ and waited to hear his excuses.

  He said wretchedly ‘I know, I’m so sorry. I gave my word not to call until my grandmother thought I was ready.’

  His expression was so sad I could not for a moment speak.

  ‘Have you a carriage, Sieur?’ said Jeanette, sounding wonderfully brisk and normal. ‘Mademoiselle will need to sit down.’

  ‘No,’ he said, dragging his eyes reluctantly from my face. ‘Oh, hullo, Jeanette, how lovely to see you. No, I’m sorry, I ran.’

  That seemed as ridiculous as my dream, but Jeanette sat me firmly on the parapet that divides the parvis and I made a determined effort to appear calm. I said ‘What an extraordinary chance we should meet like this!’ and immediately hated myself for saying something so stupid.

  ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I’ve been round every church on the Île de la Cité.’

  I had to look away again.

  He said ‘I had to see you somehow, you do understand that, don’t you? I’d have done it weeks ago but for two things.’

  I said ‘What things?’

  His eyes dropped. ‘Because my grandmother’s right. Look at you, Mademoiselle. I’m an ignorant country hobereau, why would you even look at someone like me?’

  He seems more substantial in daylight. There is more colour to him than I remembered, and the sun has tinged his face an unfashionable light brown. There is a fine dark stubble shadowing his jaw I’m sure was not there before. Then he moved to avert his face, the hair shifted on his shoulders, and I saw it stopped short where it lay.

  His cheek reddened. ‘I know, that’s part of it. The Spaniards cut it.’

  The thought of their laying hands on him overwhelmed me with a desire to hit something. I know I stood up, I remember doing it, but I think all I said was ‘How dare they?’

  He looked at me again, but seemed suddenly as inarticulate as I. I remember a touch on my fingers, then he was lifting my hands and holding them so tightly I caught my breath. ‘Anne,’ he said. ‘Anne.’ I felt the warmth of his breath on my face.

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ said Jeanette warningly. ‘Monsieur your brother …’

  Florian was approaching to escort me home and I had only seconds left. I whispered ‘What was the second reason?’

  ‘You know it,’ he said. He lifted my hand to his lips and over it his eyes were fixed on mine. ‘I need her permission for something. You must know what.’

  I needed him to say it himself. ‘Tell me now. My brother is coming, tell me now.’

  He had not realized, and I should have guessed it, for with his affliction he could never have heard Jeanette’s whisper. He spoke very quickly. ‘Marry me. Please, Anne, please say you’ll marry me.’ For a second his lips touched my skin.

  ‘Mademoiselle!’ said Florian, his voice high with disapproval. I was sorry to see he had two of his vile friends with him, but refused to be discomfited while something inside me was singing like the bells. I said ‘Why, Florian, you remember M. de Roland?’

  He clearly did, for the suspicion left his face at once. He said haltingly ‘Your pardon, Chevalier, my memory of those times is a little faulty.’

  André said ‘You were not well, Monsieur, but I remember your courage.’

  Florian’s eyes brightened with astonished gratitude, then he recollected his manners and turned to introduce his companions. I recognized them both as they doffed their ha
ts, but the look on their faces I did not know, for Desmoulins’ smile seemed almost frozen beneath his moustache while Bouchard was so pale his eyes seemed red by contrast. I looked at André, and saw that he too was standing still and taut, with an expression so dark I was afraid.

  He said ‘I believe, Messieurs, we have met before.’

  Jacques Gilbert

  We’d traipsed round all the churches after him, but couldn’t burst in on his first meeting with Anne. I knew her at once, her hair shone in the sun like red gold, but it felt wrong to be even watching them, let alone go barging in to interrupt.

  We saw the men approaching, but Jeanette curtsied and Anne smiled and I recognized the skinny one with the feeble beard as Florian. It wasn’t till they took their bloody hats off that I realized and plunged at once into the crowd.

  ‘Those are the men?’ said Charlot, working his way beside me.

  I wasn’t sure about the dark one, but couldn’t mistake the thick bull-neck or mane of fair hair on the other. ‘The blond is.’

  Charlot parted a group of gossiping women with swimming motions of his arms. ‘A pity. Henri Bouchard is a swordsman. He has killed twice already this year, one a boy of fifteen.’

  ‘I thought duelling was illegal.’

  ‘So it is,’ he said. ‘Unless it is unpremeditated and there are no seconds involved, when it is merely an “encounter”.’

  I could see them all clearly now, Anne with her hand on her breast, Jeanette moving anxiously to her side, André standing just as he’d done in the alehouse at Chantilly, and facing him two men doing exactly the same.

  ‘Like that, you mean?’ I said savagely.

  He quickened his pace without another word.

  Anne du Pré

  The bells were still ringing, and their raucous clamour confused my thought.

  Bouchard finally replaced his hat. ‘Forgive my failure to recognize you, Chevalier, but you will remember I had mainly a view of your back.’