The Chevalier

by The Chevalier (retail) (epub)

  In gratitude for the nature of our Polish welcome, I retrieve from my cases one of the most becoming dresses that I have borrowed from Marie, a trim concoction in light green velvet, its high neckline fringed with silver lace giving only hints of my padded charms. As night falls, we are sitting at a polished walnut dining table, lit dimly by candles of the lowest quality. It seems the servants have no plans for unexpected arrivals. A passable meal – I ignore the vegetables – has come and gone despite this omission. So has a considerable body of drink, including, I am pleased to say, many examples of the choicest wines from Burgundy. Most of the bottles, I am less delighted to add, are littered around my reeling guardian’s place at the table.

  “And have you tried some of our pure vodka?” Stanislaus is all innocence.

  “Don’t know. Have I?” My Lord Douglas can scarcely frame a phrase.

  “You must – our national drink.”

  “When in Rome…” He takes a huge slug from the bottle Stanislaus offers.

  “What do you think?”

  “Doesn’t taste of much. Girl’s tipple.” But my Lord’s wavering head belies his words.

  Stanislaus rams home his advantage. “Try some more.”

  My protector does so, in massive quantity. He looks dazedly at us. I have never known alcohol to have such an immediate effect. Yet, then again, I suspect I have not often seen such a copious draught taken.

  “Isn’t it… Russian?” These are the last words of a shattered mind.

  “They drink it too.” Stanislaus’s smile shows he knows a bit about this.

  My Lord slumps forward on the table.

  “Lord Douglas!” I am sorrier to see his decline than I could ever have imagined.

  “You won’t hear much more from him.” Stanislaus prods him with his index finger. “And he most surely can’t hear you.”

  “Will he be all right?”

  “Fine. He’ll carry a slight headache in the morning. It’s a common complaint, my little thing. Anyway, we have a lot to discuss.”

  Stanislaus looks at me in teasing fashion, forcing me to glance away. Besides, who is he to call me little? If I had my sword, and a red coat from the Dragoons, he would be paying for his insolence. I pause, breathe hard and swallow my rage.

  “You were going to tell me about the Russian Court.”

  “So I was.”

  “You said the Empress would appreciate me?”

  “Oh, she’ll do that. But she’s a most capricious woman. Never forget she’s the daughter of Peter the Great. She doesn’t. Don’t get on her wrong side.”

  “I’ll be the soul of discretion. Assuming I am introduced.”

  “You will be.” He smiles in a disconcerting manner – I’m beginning to regret taking such trouble with my green dress. “She’s not your only worry.”

  “Who else is there?”

  His eyes sparkle, even in the poor candlelight . “The true rising power is the Grand Duchess Catherine.”

  “Won’t her husband be the next Emperor?”

  “Yes, but he’s an idiot not worthy of her. She’s brave, intelligent, sophisticated.”

  “I believe you’re an admirer.”

  “She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met – until now.”

  I have a suspicion where this is leading and fiddle with my choker. “When did you meet her?”

  “A month or so ago. The English Ambassador and I were invited to dine with her and the Grand Duke Peter at Oranienbaum. I was captivated that night.”

  “Does she return your love?”

  “That is not for a gentleman to say.” But his smouldering gaze confesses all. He has, I reckon, hopes but not assurances.

  “So why have you left her company?”

  “I can tell you I would not have done so, but for the most urgent of demands.” He shifts with nervous energy upon his chair. “Did I not mention earlier why I’m here?”

  “To receive instructions from your King, I understand.”

  “Only ostensibly – but that alone would never justify a flying visit from St Petersburg. The man can write, after all. I am also canvassing support.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I am on a monarchical mission.”

  So the dreams of this sentimental upstart will clash with my plan to help the Prince de Conti. “You want to be King of Poland?”

  “Is that so strange?”

  “Well, perhaps not. What is the current position?”

  “Let me tell you. The Polish Crown is an elective monarchy, as you may know.” My face stays blank, I trust. “Our present King Augustus cannot last forever. He has no male issue, at least none who might be considered in another country as his heir. Naturally the French will try to put forward some cousin of their King as a contender – they always do.” His disrespect is most provoking. I strive to remain impassive. “My own father was a trusted friend of our King, Stanislas Leszczinski, whose daughter is your Queen.” I recall with vivid clarity the gloomy presence in the corner, a black shade in the Hall of Mirrors. “He was valiant and highly respected by his fellow nobles. My mother, Princess Constance Czartoryska, was esteemed throughout the land. I am young, healthy, patriotic, ambitious and politically astute.” I wish to add “modest” to his list of self-proclaimed virtues, but desist. “So I feel I must be the perfect candidate.”

  “I cannot gainsay you, sir.”

  “And I will need a Queen.” He looks at me with a suggestive air.

  “I hardly think…”

  “We need French reforms.”

  “It’s very kind of you, but…”

  Stanislaus makes a grab for my hand but I am fortunate I see it coming. “You’re the most ravishing creature I’ve ever seen.”

  I rise and dodge away. Stanislaus lunges at me again. This is becoming too regular an occurrence. How women must live by their wits!

  “What about Catherine?”

  “Forget her.” He evidently has. “Don’t you find me handsome?”

  “Of course: that’s not the point.”

  “Which is?”

  “I have a duty to fulfil.” I continue to back away.

  “Are they expecting you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, they won’t miss you. Stay here with me.”

  “I’d like to very much – but it’s impossible.”

  “Nothing’s impossible where love’s concerned.” He flails again at me and this time I cannot escape him. He seizes me by the wrist.

  “Unhand me, sir, I am a guest in your house.”

  “Don’t worry. No one can hear us.”

  “That’s not what I’m thinking at all. Where are your manners?” Behind me, Lord Douglas gives a violent snort in his sleep. “And to speak of love in such a careless fashion…”

  “Relax,” he says, tightening his grip. “You’ll enjoy yourself.”

  “More than you’ll ever do.” I breathe defiance.

  “Say what you like.” At that, his eyes narrow, and he jerks my hand upward. “But it’s time to pay for your passage.”

  The pain in my wrist is extraordinary. He pulls me over until I am standing close by him – and the table.

  “What are you thinking of? This is no way to woo a lady.”

  “You’ve had your chance. Now you must submit.”

  I look him full in the face. The reason for the intensity of his stare becomes clear; he is afflicted by extreme myopia. “There’s no justice in this, sir.”

  “Well, you have teased me long enough.”

  One hand leaves off from holding me for a moment. I do not know what he intends, but I am sure it is dangerous. I seize my chance, break away and stumble against the sleeping form of my protector. Lord Douglas grunts again in his drunken stupor.

  “Wake up,” I scream at him.

  “Come back here,” begs my host. “You’ll have everything you want.”

  “Help me, Lord Douglas…”

  “He’s dead to the world.”<
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  “Lord Douglas!” His body stirs from the tabletop as I shout again in his ear. At last I think I’m having an effect.

  “Who’s Douglas?” He sits up. “What’s going on?”

  “I think it’s time we were retiring,” I say.

  He yawns. “Yes, feeling a bit sleepy myself.”

  Stanislaus snarls at him. “You keep out of this, fool. I’ll show her to her bed.”

  My companion hauls himself back to full consciousness at the insult. He lurches to his feet. “Is that so, sir? Out of the question. I’m escorting the lady.”

  “Most sorry – good night.” I smile with relieved insincerity at Stanislaus.

  We depart in haste for our bedrooms – at least, as much haste as we can manage, since I am half-dragging my protector.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Hunting Lodge

  Hot winds rush through the darkened park at Nangis. Flocks of starlings quit the protection of the ancient oak trees, swoop over the lawns and seek new shelter under the château’s eaves. Within a moment comes the other reason for their flight – a distant roll of thunder crackles in the air. Amid the rumbling, Marie and Lydia slide from the castle in the direction of the gardens.

  “Are you sure we don’t need a parasol?” Marie struggles to gather her shawl around her. “I can ask Violette for one.”

  “Don’t worry, my dear. We shall not be long.” Lydia glances at the skies. “Now tell me. Guerchy leaving you in my charge: does it upset you?”

  “Not at all. I believe we have many things in common.”

  “But answering to someone scarcely older…”

  “By more than a year or two, I might remind you.” Marie stumbles on a broken branch, wavers, unsteady on her feet. “Was that a flash of lightning?”

  “Several leagues off…” Lydia reaches out a hand to support her companion, as Marie adjusts her trim white boot. “Still, your restraint does you credit.”

  “And I will thank you for your compassion.” Marie, one foot floating groundless, allows Lydia to guide her about to face towards the tended garden. “The land smells parched; it needs rain.”

  Lydia looks heavenward once more, a dark cloud now scudding across the rising moon. “It’s coming. You realise why I wished to speak outside?”

  Marie’s left foot finally touches earth. “I was under the impression you like to commune with the elements.” They resume their progress.

  “Of course – but there’s something I must say.”

  “I am listening, Lydia.” Another, louder clap of thunder causes them both to pick up their pace.

  “No one will overhear us in this gale. These words are for you alone.”

  “You honour me.” They come to a halt before a flowering rosebush.

  “It’s not just that…” Lydia hesitates, closes her mouth, turns away, and picks a dark red rose. “Such a delicious scent.” She passes the flower to Marie. As Marie grasps it between thumb and forefinger, a rogue thorn rips her skin.

  “Incomparable.” Marie holds the rose to her nostrils by the stem. Its fresh aroma lingers only a second before a strong gust whips it away. “What do you want to tell me?” A tiny rivulet of blood is oozing down her hand and arm.

  Lydia starts again for the house. “You’re right to think we share… frustrations. Oh, more lightning. My husband is,” she pauses, checks herself, “a very good man. In his fashion. Yet he has us both in thrall.”

  “But now he is gone away. It will rain very soon, I believe.”

  “Indeed – God speed his journey.” Lydia gazes into the distance, as if following his progress, before turning to Marie once more. “I urge you to be circumspect. If so, I’ll grant you leeway. More than he has ever done.”

  Marie places her shawl over her head. “Most welcome news, because I wish to seek your permission for a short visit to Paris. The thunder is growing louder.”

  “Just as I thought. I may even travel there myself. Family business. You have my blessing, but take care. Who are you seeing, pray?”

  A huge flash lights up the whole sky, illuminating the park as though it were day. The spikes on the castle’s four black turrets glint silver.

  “My hosts are personages of infinite renown and merit, I assure you. And that lightning is marching ever closer.”

  “Beware those people most of all. Here comes the rain.” Both ladies pick up their skirts and run for the sanctuary of the looming château. The rain first spatters, and then descends with more violence, splashing on the great slabs of stone as though it were the sea rinsing down pebbles on the shore.

  * * *

  Marie wastes little time before visiting her personages of merit and renown. In the vast drawing room upon the ground floor of the Hôtel de Gesvres, Stainville is showing her to a gargantuan sofa. She has never seen its like. Apart from this concession to leisure, the echoing space resembles an office of foreign affairs, which, unofficially, it is. Broad maps of Europe, Asia, the Americas and Indies line the walls, surrounded by portraits of past ministers, diplomats, generals – and kings.

  “Thank you so much for your attendance.” He wanders away towards the high windows.

  She stares at the back of his immaculate dark blue jacket. “It’s no trouble.”

  But her demeanour belies her words, unsure as she is whether to perch upon the edge of the sofa or to sink back within it and appear lost. She settles for the former, running her fingers along its tasselled verges; Stainville lounges, left hand against the wall, the right spinning one of two globes, marking the stars in the heavens, while he observes the movement of vessels on the Seine.

  “Yes, I can tell you Madame de Pompadour was most intrigued by your companion.”

  “She was, was she?” Marie brushes the front of her light mauve dress.

  “She’d like to know everything about her background.” The palm of his hand halts the revolution of the stellar world in its tracks.

  “As would I. I don’t know much about her myself.”

  Stainville wheels away from the window and begins to advance upon her, boots squeaking on the floor’s surface. “You were closer to her than anyone. The Marquise says you were her accomplice when she was received at Court.”

  “I was with her, I don’t deny that.”

  He strolls behind the sofa, leans forward over the back of it, mouth poised close by her ear. “Then tell me all about her.”

  “I’ve only met her once or twice. We didn’t witter on about the past.”

  “That’s very hard to credit.” His voice is low, insinuating. “In my experience, I’ve found that new best friends seldom do anything else.”

  “Not in this case. We must have had other things to discuss.”

  He straightens up and takes a few paces away towards the doors. “So you say you don’t know where this little creature has come from?” He circles her in a wide arc.

  “No. Not at all.” Marie sinks back in temporary relief. It doesn’t last. Sure enough, she is engulfed by the sofa. “I’ve merely taken her at face value.”

  “Isn’t that a bit naïve?” He allows himself a brief laugh. “She might have sprung from anywhere.” Now he is directly in front of her. “She could be a spy sent to unravel the mysteries of France.” His eyes attempt to pierce her guard.

  She glares back, her resistance undimmed. “From the little I understand of her, I’m sure that’s not the truth.”

  “But if it does turn out to be so, you will be an accessory to her treason.”

  “I’ll take that risk.” She spreads her arms in defiance upon the broad back of the sofa, yet her lip trembles.

  Stainville makes a step forward as though he is about to continue pressing her; he hesitates, decides to leave it be, turns and sits down behind the desk. “Very well. But remember, we’ll be watching you. And it would be a shame for your other friend’s dalliance with my cousin to be more widely known. Good evening.”

  Marie tries not to register her bewilderment – was
that what Lydia had been trying to say? – while she rises with some effort to leave. “And good evening to you, sir.”

  As she departs from the room, the Marquise de Pompadour emerges from behind a long, lacquered yellow screen depicting everyday scenes of Chinese life at court; the most prominent shows a woman’s head, that of a once high-flying courtesan, upon the execution block.

  * * *

  Another screen, pale blue with golden fleurs-de-lys, is littered with stockings, a bodice and a lace chemise. In the small upstairs bedroom of the rented apartment at the Palais-Royal, Lydia and César Gabriel are disentangling themselves in lazy fashion from the hot labours of love.

  “This can’t go on much longer.” She reaches for a vial of perfume on the bedside table.

  “Calm yourself, Lydia. He’s a long way off. Have you heard from him?”

  “No.” She dabs droplets all over her body. “Not that I expected to – he said his mission was most important. Naturally, it necessitates his total silence.”

  He allows himself a pinch of snuff, shaking it onto the miniature rostrum formed by thumb and forefinger, and applying it to his nasal cavity. “Then let me put your fears at rest. Our man in Dresden passed us a coded communiqué. All is going well, and he is headed further east with his charge.” A sneeze ensues.

  “Bless you. How do you know this?”

  “My cousin is quite the favourite of a most powerful party.”

  “You mean, La Pompadour.”

  He wipes his nose and examines his fingers. “Now you didn’t hear that from me.”

  “So he’s involved in her machinations.” She puts down the scent, throws him an embroidered handkerchief, and props herself upon the pillows.

  “Neither can you infer such a close link from so distant a report.” He dawdles, seduced by her naked display yet ever more cognizant of the hour.

  “Come, César, we must use this.”

  “Careful, my sweet. You take on the mistress of the dark arts of influence at your peril.” Her boldness spurs him perversely to discretion. He starts to pull on his breeches.

  * * *

  The gentle breeze of a perfect summer afternoon ruffles the curtains in the Guerchy townhouse. Waiting for Lydia to join her, Marie is taking a dish of chocolate, feet curled up on a sofa, when Violette comes to whisper in her ear.