The Chevalier

by The Chevalier (retail) (epub)

  “Of course, ask them to come in.”

  Her maid tries not to show surprise. “Will that be all, Madame?”

  Marie nods her head and Violette withdraws: soon after, Conti enters, followed in close order by Charlotte.

  “Monsieur le Prince, Comtesse, this is a pleasant meeting.” Marie gets up to greet them. “Now will you join me in some chocolate – or maybe tea? What brings you here?”

  “Thank you for your hospitality, but no. We are due to entertain a small gathering presently.” He shrugs, half in apology. “We have word from our little friend.”

  “And is the news favourable?” Marie indicates some chairs.

  “So far. They have reached Prague, and no one has yet questioned them too closely.” Conti waits for the ladies to sit first; they wish to defer to a Prince of the Blood. After much to-ing and fro-ing, they all sit down at the same moment.

  “But the real test is yet to come.”

  Conti nods in slow deliberation. “Quite so. He also says he recognises his escort, and questions whether he is really Lord Douglas. However, he gives no further details.”

  Charlotte assumes her most concerned expression, and reaches out for Marie’s hand. “We have a message for you of even greater import, dearest heart.”

  “What could be more vital than his safety?”

  “I know, I know, until you hear this. The King sends his compliments.” Charlotte gives her the most fleeting smile. “He requests the pleasure of your company tomorrow evening.”

  “And if I’m busy?” Marie sees her fingernails need some attention.

  Conti bounces to his feet. “No one’s too busy for the King.”

  “I think I take your meaning.” Marie looks up – she will require a manicure. So many people are now importuning her. “What does he want to discuss?”

  “No doubt, the progress of our friend… matters of state. Which reminds me of my own duties before your salon,” he gives a little cough, glancing at Charlotte – “you must excuse me, Madame.”

  He withdraws in a flurry of bows, leaving Marie puzzled. She turns to Charlotte. “Surely the Well-Beloved has a multitude of advisers for such tasks?”

  Yet the Comtesse de Boufflers is already rising to follow her Prince. “You might think so, my dear. But the King must draw on all of us for help in carrying the royal burden. Just do as the Prince says and render what assistance you can. His coach will call for you at nine.”

  * * *

  The Prince’s carriage rattles westward out of Paris into the gathering dusk. On board, Marie’s heart palpitates. Soon after eleven, it reaches a lodge near the converted convent in the Parc-aux-Cerfs. Following an elaborate ceremony at the doorway conducted by Conti’s factotum and Madame Bertrand, Marie enters a bare hallway, inhaling the strong smell of horses and polished riding tackle. At the end of a short corridor, her fears rising with every step, Marie comes to a large door. Madame Bertrand gives four light knocks; within, they find Louis lounging at his ease by a modest fire. He smiles at the sight of Marie’s low cut royal blue dress.

  “Your Majesty.” Her nose grazes the polished wood as she curtseys.

  “Welcome. I hope you’ll forgive the lack of ceremony. I like to entertain simply when I can.” His hands shoo Madame Bertrand away.

  “I’m most honoured,” says Marie.

  “As for the fire, I find it helps me to recuperate after the endeavours of the hunt. You’ve no objection to one in summer?”

  “It creates a pleasing ambience, Sire.”

  “Good, good. Sit down upon that chaise longue there where I can marvel at you. I must say, it is a delight to see you again. You have a healthy flush about you, and a fine bosom; not at all like those small-breasted pieces Lebel keeps finding for me, pretty though they are in their way.”

  She colours and looks downward. “Sire, I really don’t know what to say.”

  “Learn to accept a royal compliment, my dear. Now, first, shall we discuss our little friend?”

  “The news is good, I hear.”

  “Splendid, splendid. I have been similarly informed. We all pray for success.”

  She folds her hands in pious ritual. “Amen, Your Majesty.”

  “Quite, quite. But there is one hard question I must ask you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Without doubt a most remarkable individual, remarkable. But do you love – I hardly know what to say – him?”

  Marie looks this way and that in order to avoid the piercing black eyes of the King. “I find it even more difficult to answer.”

  “Still, I must demand a reply. Demand it – as your sovereign.”

  She continues to examine, with intimate precision, the glowing embers of every log in the fire. At last she turns back to face him. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “I thank you for your candour.” A deep sigh. “Well, we all love him, of course.” He takes a place on the other chaise longue opposite her and signals her to come over to him. “And do you love France?”

  She moves across and sits where he bids her, leaving a little gap between them. “How could you think otherwise? I adore my country.”

  “Excellent, excellent.” A black cat struts out from behind the sofa and proceeds to make its bed upon her lap. “You like cats, I hope?”

  “Very much.”

  He nods, far away in thought. “Do I represent France to you?”

  “Sire, you are France.” She feels the silken fur of the cat with tentative fingers.

  He motions her to come even closer, enforcing it with a hand around her shoulder. “Then can you love me in the same way as you do our friend?”

  The cat leaps up as she moves. “I don’t understand…”

  “Don’t you see? I’m offering you the chance to be my mistress.” A white-hot piece falls from a burning log and breaks upon the hearth, singeing the rug.

  “Naturally, I’m flattered, but…”

  He is already untying the bows upon the back of her blue dress. “Do you not wish for the position, the power of La Pompadour? It’s not an invitation that can ever be refused.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Russian Border

  “I am forever in your debt, Lord Douglas,” I acknowledge as we scramble through the doors of Poniatowski’s mansion at some ungodly hour of the morning. Even though I now know “Lord Douglas” is an impostor.

  His only response is a muted groan.

  Outside in the quiet of a fashionable street, Monin seems vastly diverted by the whole affair. He hisses at the fat footman to load up fast and capers around us with all the abandon of a troll who has just found a carcass of venison.

  “You’ll have to protect me again in Russia, of course,” I say. “The Count will be following us there soon.”

  His hand rises to his forehead. “He wants you that much?”

  “Well, he told me he’s returning to the Court of the Tsarina. But I think there are other reasons.”

  Lord Douglas’s own base intentions are forgotten today. “Rely on me,” he grunts.

  Monin thanks the perspiring footman, whips up the horses, and we are away, without the need for any awkward farewells, Count Stanislaus still diplomatically in bed.

  * * *

  We rumble slowly as we dare through the streets of Warsaw, before crossing the Vistula, quitting Poland and turning northward for the Baltic Sea, receiving several hints of its presence in the innumerable lakes that sprinkle the forests in this part of Prussia. The Sea finally emerges, and we survey it at Königsberg, pausing to allow the wind from the waters to blow away some of the friction between us and, in my case, to send a coded note to my sponsor.

  I manage to accomplish this at our consulate, where I pass a short message to the official’s wife, while I am making my toilette. I know her to be conversant with the Secret du Roi – perhaps this Madame de Tarparon, quite striking in her fashion, lively, with thin features and an elegant, aquiline nose, has been an intimate of my spymaster. It is as well
that the Prince de Conti should be made swiftly aware who is rivalling him for the Polish crown. I suspect he will be able to make short work of this young poltroon, however mighty his forebears.

  From Königsberg, our carriage hugs the road along the shoreline taking us into Memel and the Duchy of Courland, a morass of sandy plains and marshes. Even in summer, it is so damp that I soon catch cold and snuffle my way through the swamp-ridden days. After a night or two of little sleep, this infection turns virulent and inner heat suffuses me. My head begins to spin and, in my feverish dreams, I imagine another coach is on our tail. Such overcrowding of the roads is most unlikely, but n evertheless, my delusion persists.

  At the port of Libau we leave the seashore and head east through huge sand dunes and pine woods towards the Duchy’s capital. Mitau turns out to be a small backwater of no great distinction. The Duke of Courland, great Biron, was the lover of Russia’s last Empress, Anna Ivanovna. As a consequence, her successor banished him to Siberia and, even though I hear Elizabeth has brought him nearer home, in his absence all cultivated pursuits and many of the farms in his country continue to lie fallow. The Duchy remains leaderless and out of favour.

  However, my Lord, who has been shunning me throughout my illness, discovers there are important mines in the vicinity, yielding iron and copper, and convinces me in my stupor that we must visit them. Even though my legs are starting to cramp up, I accede with silent grace. His claims to mineralogy need credence, I know. Not many can speak French in these parts, so we are spared intrusive questioning. Monin, of course, is delighted to pull out maps and interrogate the natives in his odd mixture of German and Polish. Otherwise, we get by on smiles and the opportunities I afford for the menfolk to ogle a Parisienne sophisticate.

  We pass on out of Courland, through moody herds of grazing cattle, heading for Riga – the city where east Europe melts into the Russian Empire. At last my malady leaves me, and I begin to contemplate the future with more equanimity. However, my self-absorption causes me to forget the folly of my companion. Approaching the border patrols along the last of many sluggish, sand-clogged roads, Lord Douglas turns toward me.

  “We are nearing our destination, Mademoiselle.”

  “The first hurdle, certainly.”

  “What’s our story now?”

  Really, I shall miss him when he is gone. “My dear sir, we cling to the truth at all times.”

  He looks somewhat bemused by the onset of sincerity – perhaps he has penetrated my disguise after all. “Of course, of course.”

  * * *

  I must say that I am not encouraged by my first sight of Russian troops as we wait at the frontier. The men appear taller, broader, a great deal stronger, as though they come from a different race. A detachment of guards is exercising in a yard beyond the gatehouse, all of them stripped to the waist, muscles rippling; barbarians with just a dash of civilisation, the most frightening of prospects.

  Lord Douglas presents our papers, which clearly mean nothing to the oaf on patrol. However, the guard summons his captain, a man of breeding and rather too much perspicacity. They converse rapidly in some godforsaken language, which I take to be Russian. The captain inspects our passes briskly and raises a quizzical eyebrow at my protector.

  “You are from Scotland?” His French accent is well-nigh perfect.

  My Lord agrees that this is so.

  “Our Empress’s father employed the talents of many from your country.”

  “That’s the Tsar Peter,” I say, noting my escort’s look of befuddlement.

  “I know all that,” Lord Douglas blusters.

  The captain, who mentions his name is Orlov, regards my guardian with condescension. “You lived in Scotland for some years?”

  “I have.”

  “Were you acquainted with the family of James Bruce?”

  My protector eyes the frontier posts as though they might be distant members of the clan. “Hmmm, well, I don’t think we’ve ever come across them, as it happens.”

  “Are the Bruces not one of the great dynasties of Scotland?” Orlov drums his fingers on the carriage window sill. This is not the welcome I wished for.

  “I suppose so, yes.” Lord Douglas looks at me, in vain, for further guidance.

  “And let us presume your own is not without distinction?”

  “We’ve had our moments, naturally.”

  Our clever captain sighs. “Then I am at a loss. Unless, of course, the reason for your lack of knowledge is that you were involved in that dismal rebellion.”

  “I can assure you I was nowhere in evidence during that time.”

  This I can well believe.

  “Then why are you escorting a young woman” – Orlov gives my papers a further cursory examination – “who appears to be French? Are not the crowns of your country and France in almost perpetual conflict?”

  Lord Douglas wallows in some perplexity as to whether he should now be assuming the mantle of a Scotchman or an Englishman.

  “I think I can be of some assistance, Captain.” I smile, and lower my eyelashes in a seductive manner.

  “No doubt you can, Mademoiselle.” Orlov signals to his guardsmen. “You will, however, both do me the honour of descending from the carriage and joining me in my humble quarters. I suspect that we may be able to offer you some refreshment as recompense for your trouble. A cup of tea, perhaps?”

  I am beginning to associate this apparently innocent drink with the most protracted of tortures. The way in which Orlov’s guards manhandle us does nothing to dissipate my fears. Once inside the border post, we are seated on a wooden bench and given cups of some thin liquid which barely resembles the delicate infusion I tasted at the Prince de Conti’s home. Suddenly, the captain snaps his fingers and we are seized by four of his brawny underlings. Within a moment, our hands are stretched in front of us, and bound with rope of low quality but, I must confess, total effectiveness.

  “Purely a precaution, you understand,” says the captain.

  “Still, I must protest. You have no right to do this.” The commentary from my Lord is interrupted as a rough cloth gags his mouth.

  “Do you think not? But the orders from the Tsarina are most precise. Europe is in ferment. No potential spies are to be allowed into the country.”

  Lord Douglas struggles, helpless. It is time for me to play my part before my own means of speech is also curtailed. “We can appreciate your concern, Captain Orlov. However, if we have been doing any spying, which is a matter of interpretation, we have only been carrying out these activities on behalf of your Tsarina. Lord Douglas has been gathering information about mining techniques throughout Europe for presentation to the Russian Court. Because of the exigencies of his duties, he was sorely in need of some secretarial assistance, and due to some legal problems which I need not detail for you now, my own family has been disenfranchised and I was happy to offer my services. I have some copious notes and drawings of these mines in my baggage to show you as proof.”

  Fortunately, when I wasn’t too sick, I felt compelled to do something during our detours to avoid the pitfalls of excessive boredom. And I flatter myself that, among my other accomplishments, I am a more than adequate draughtsman.

  “A pretty story from a fair and sensuous pair of lips. Yet they frame a mouth that must also rest from its labours.” Orlov signals to one of his brutes to come forward to gag me. The knot is extremely tight at the back of my head; it is most unpleasing, and I can now feel more sympathy for the frantic head-jerking of my Lord.

  Just as my jailer is about to secure the muzzle, a fracas outside delays him, in which I hear a voice I recognise. “Where are the occupants of this carriage?”

  Some trooper, I imagine, gesticulates at the shack where we are being held. The shape of a small man appears in the doorway.

  “Unhand these poor creatures at once,” commands that same voice I welcome – and most dread.

  The fingers of my captor slip, the knot loosens and my gag fall
s open. “Count Stanislaus!” I cry out.

  His youthful figure dashes into the dingy guardhouse, halts in front of me and strikes a bold pose, ready to draw his sword. “Destiny has thrown us together again, Mademoiselle.”

  Orlov twitches in some aggravation. “And who are you?”

  “Count Poniatowski at your service.”

  “You have your papers, sir?”

  “I am accredited to your Empress’s Court.” He flourishes some documents under the captain’s nose. “Indeed, I believe I’m soon to be the Ambassador from Saxony. Do check.”

  Grabbing the papers, Orlov shuffles through them. “Do you know these adventurers?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you can stand surety for them?”

  The Count crosses his right arm over his chest. “I will.”

  “In that case, I shall release them.” Orlov has the sullen mien of a child who has been compelled to desist from a pleasant diversion, such as tormenting a squirrel. Being the one who would have taken the place of that poor animal, I can only say I’m much relieved. He pauses a moment, then nods to his men.

  The guards unbind my hands and those of Lord Douglas before, at the last, un-gagging him.

  “You will be hearing from your sovereign about this,” splutters my protector.

  “I beg your pardon,” says Orlov. He looks as though he’d rather do anything else. “You would do best to remember your situation here before making threats.”

  Once more I hasten to smile and mollify our host. “I am sure my Lord meant nothing of the kind.” I turn my beseeching gaze on my protector. “The whole episode is forgotten by us, is it not?”

  “That would be for the best,” confirms Stanislaus.

  There is a tense hiatus. My guardian is clearly most unwilling to forget. Under the table, I kick his ankle. Eventually, Lord Douglas nods his head.