The Chevalier

She shrugs. “Would you have me undercut my ministers? It can’t be done. You will be alone.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Net Closes

  The thin light of dawn filters over parklands near Versailles. Marie’s carriage lurches in the ruts before a gate, passes through and enters a wood. A mist creeps up and soon surrounds the vehicle. All her senses are flickering with fatigue from her royal encounter, but the chill revives her and she awakens, comes alive. The mist feels tangible, oppressive; it is reaching out, pervading her carriage and tickling her skin. She thinks for a moment she makes out a shadowy figure, there in the woods – but the shape vanishes. Everything is silent. Suddenly, a gunshot rings out: the smoke swirls into the miasma. Eight apparitions, liveried in white, edged with gold and purple, appear on either side of her carriage. She is cut off: her blood runs cold.

  One of the ghosts is speaking: “Don’t be alarmed, Madame de Courcelles. We merely wished to draw the attention of your coachman to our presence.”

  She pokes her head out of the window into the mist. “What do you want from me?”

  “We bring an invitation.” The liveried figure bows low, his head descending into knee-high vapours. “Our mistress desires that you take a cup of warming chocolate with her.”

  “Your mistress?” Marie is regaining her equilibrium.

  “One who happens to be the most famous woman in all France. She needs no introduction.” He draws his sword. “We will escort you to her.”

  “And who are you?”

  The sword twirls through the haze. “My name is Collin, Madame.” With that the spectre recedes into the mist.

  Two golden coaches trimmed in purple and white emerge from the shrouded undergrowth into the clearing and take up station either side of Marie’s carriage. There is no possibility of escape. The procession swings around and moves off slowly through the woods in the opposite direction – the pathway leading to Bellevue. Marie sits back, collects her thoughts until they enter open ground, the mist rolls away, and there, sited on a spur above the river, she sees the grand pavilion of the favourite.

  In the morning room she finds the promised chocolate waiting, buttressed by ranks of pastries. The liquid warms her, but before she can relax completely, in bustles La Pompadour with the sweating Stainville. Marie looks from one to the other, and feels edgy and tired once more as they hover over her. Above them all, the busts of Roman Emperors frown down.

  “Thank you for joining us,” says France’s mistress, picking up a cup of chocolate and holding it to her chest, rolling the warmed china against her bosom.

  “Why this commotion? You know you only have to ask and I should come willingly,” replies Marie, twisting the truth the merest trifle.

  The Marquise blows cooling breath onto the reddened patches of her flesh. “My servants were exercising the horses, noticed your coach lost in the woods, to all appearances, and thought you might be in need of refreshment.”

  “Most kind. Yet you should know it’s not my coach.”

  “Indeed. The Prince of Conti’s, is it not?”

  “I can’t think what business it might be of yours.”

  Grey eyes give her a cold reply. And now Marie begins to feel the effects of a pincer movement. On her untended flank, Stainville walks round with measured tread to stand behind her chair. “We understand you saw the King,” he says.

  “Yes. I’m sure it’s the dream of every loyal Frenchwoman. Was that wrong?”

  He purses his lips. “What you did was very wrong.” The heads of Stainville and La Pompadour shake in ponderous unison.

  “I did nothing, I can assure you.”

  “Don’t play games with us,” says the Marquise. “You won’t win. It’s all quite clear. I know his tastes – I see how you appeal to them.”

  “Just his type.” Stainville is hissing in her ear, hands stroking her bare neck and shoulders.

  “I can imagine it now,” whispers La Pompadour. “The hunting lodge at night.”

  Marie sits rigid between them – powerless to halt the intertwining voices as they describe the scene between her and Louis in his secret retreat. The imagined version is as harsh as the ordeal she’s only just escaped.

  “He places you near him,” says Stainville.

  “By a crackling fire…”

  “Every so often a log flares up…”

  La Pompadour muses: “The King is relaxed, informal…”

  “The delicate request…”

  “He leans forward towards you, beckons you to come even closer…”

  “His arm snakes out to caress your breast…” Stainville’s action matches his words.

  “You’re unsure how to react…”

  “The King shows petulance at a hint of modesty…”

  “You shrink back, but things have already gone too far,” says the Marquise. “Now Louis takes offence.”

  Stainville’s fingers are pulling gently at the lobes of Marie’s ears. “The corner of his mouth curls upward in cynical disregard…”

  “Those darkened Bourbon eyes bore in upon you…” The Marquise’s eyes are flickering green.

  “The arrogant assumption of rights…”

  “He pulls you roughly towards him.” Now La Pompadour’s hands are fluttering around Marie’s breasts. “Swiftly stripping you to your bodice…”

  “Your outer clothes go flying…” says Stainville. Marie crosses her arms in front of herself swiftly to prevent a repetition.

  “Easing you over the chair…”

  His fingernails dig into yielding skin on Marie’s shoulders. “Until, by now half naked, you cease to struggle…” She cries out as he draws a slither of blood.

  “You can only defend your honour for so long,” the Marquise confides. “After all, he is the King.”

  At last, Stainville and La Pompadour step back from their encircled victim. Marie is fighting down tears after their cruel recitation, hot tears at the memory of Bourbon lust. Her own hands fly up to wipe away the specks of blood on her bare shoulders.

  Stainville admires his handiwork. “Isn’t that how it happened?”

  “You don’t think for a moment…” Marie stammers.

  “He hasn’t changed,” says La Pompadour. “You forget I’ve been there too. I still like to hunt occasionally – to keep my lips used to the horn.”

  “And if I were to admit, which I do not, that such a scene took place?”

  Stainville slaps the back of the chair. “It’s something that must never occur again.”

  “Surely I can’t refuse the King?” Marie turns to him, her cheekbones twitching in despair.

  La Pompadour gestures to Stainville, who grasps Marie around the waist to lift her from the chair. The Marquise herself raises Marie’s chin so they’re now face to face. “If you want to survive, you’d better. You’re Guerchy’s ward?”

  “Since my husband,” here she chokes a little, “died, yes.”

  “The Comte de Guerchy will do anything for us,” says the Marquise. “You’d find the Bastille most uncongenial.”

  At last Stainville releases his tight grip on Marie. “When the King sends for you again, discover an illness.”

  * * *

  It is a week or so before the French Court undertakes one of its regular peregrinations. Louis tires of a locale so quickly these days. Marie sends her regrets: due to an indisposition, she is unable to accept the invitation of the Prince de Conti, who is entertaining the royal party with a performance of Le Malade Imaginaire. On a small island in a kink of the River Oise, a few leagues to the north of Paris, stands his country mansion, the Château de l’Isle-Adam, which, providentially, lies in the middle of great hunting country. On either side of the river, great gardens stretch in all directions. The château, towering straight up from the water – romantic in aspect, if necessarily confined – is connected by a swooping bridge to an even smaller outcrop. Here the Prince’s architect has built a fine, though huddled, theatre.

  As sunlig
ht fades, the King and his host are strolling across the bridge towards the playhouse. Beyond the sparkling waters, on the grassy riverbanks, the town’s butchers are hacking carcasses of venison: the prizes from the hunt.

  “An excellent day’s sport. Well done, cousin.”

  “I thank you, Sire.” Conti inclines his head.

  Louis pauses for a second to watch a heron line up some freshwater prey. “I don’t think I shall ever tire of chasing deer.”

  “Let us hope not.”

  “You put on a splendid supper, too. And what do you have planned for this evening?” The walk resumes.

  “An intriguing performance of a first-rate play. You are acquainted with Le Malade Imaginaire?”

  The King nods, a brief smile flitting across his features. “Very good. Well, other people may suffer from such foibles, but my own sicknesses are all too real, you know. Remember how I suffered at Metz?”

  “The nation rejoiced at your recovery.”

  “Quite, quite. But I don’t want all that fuss again.”

  “If your policy bears fruit, France will soon be victorious at arms. Then you will have to put up with the adulation of the people once more,” says Conti, tossing a coin to a threadbare ragamuffin, fishing beneath the bridge with a rudimentary rod.

  “I suppose you’re right. Anyway, that’s different. I would not wish to dampen such natural enthusiasm.”

  “The nation is ready, Sire. How much longer can we tolerate the English attacking our land in America and seizing our ships at sea?”

  Louis exhales, making a whistling sound as his tongue flicks the back of his teeth. “Quite, quite. But it’s not as simple as all that, you know. We shall strike back once I have made our alliances and marshalled our forces.”

  “When I am King of Poland, I hope I shall follow the precepts so expertly laid down by Your Majesty.”

  “Indeed. We can discuss the matter more fully in due course.” Louis looks away, signalling a change of topic. “Meanwhile, what word of our little friend?”

  “We think he’s now in Petersburg. God willing, he can sway Elizabeth. Then your new alliances will be ripe for revelation.”

  “You’ve heard from Russia?” The King’s black eyes swing back to Conti.

  “Königsberg. Our agent there is most efficient.”

  “Prussia! A viper’s nest. I cannot believe anyone is at all impressed by the posturing behaviour of that braggart Frederick.”

  “He is indiscreet, Sire.”

  “Accusing me of having mistresses! Whatever next! Doesn’t he know all normal men do so, if they have the wherewithal? Of course, his own tastes veer off in different directions, but you don’t hear me talking about that. Well, not in public anyway.”

  “He is walking a tighter rope than he knows.”

  “Very much so.” Louis waves to three young ladies leaning on balustrades at the end of the bridge. “However, I think you mistook me earlier. When I asked about the evening’s plans, I was enquiring about… you know?” He looks back at the girls.

  “Company, Sire?”

  “That’s it! Exactly.” He drops his voice as they enter the doors of the theatre. “Is Madame de Courcelles making an appearance?”

  “I’m afraid she has been taken ill of a sudden.” The Prince leads his royal guest towards the House of Bourbon’s box.

  “Hmm, pity, pity…”

  “I’m sure we can find someone agreeable to Your Majesty.” Conti gestures around the auditorium.

  “Of course.” Louis seems more doubtful. “Now where are we to sit?”

  “You remember Charlotte, Comtesse de Boufflers?”

  Snapping shut her jewelled opera glasses, which had been trained upon the evening’s target, Charlotte rises to curtsey to the royal presence.

  The King admires her décolletage yet seems to recall she’s his cousin’s mistress. “Oh yes, delightful.” Might she turn? He will consider the possibility. “I mean, delighted.”

  Meanwhile, she brushes down velvet cushions. “Please take this seat, Sire. You will find it has the best view.”

  “Thank you. Thank you, indeed.”

  Charlotte takes some time away from the preparation of her assault to flit around the King, manoeuvring him into his place of honour. With some reluctance, Louis decides that seducing her would be problematic and settles down to examine the younger and most fetching members of the audience.

  Unwittingly reprieved, Charlotte prepares to return to the attack. “If Your Majesty is comfortable…?”

  “Very fine, very fine. Don’t worry about me, my dear.” The King spots a new contender. “You carry on.”

  A barrage of coughs and the rustling of fans signal the beginning of the onslaught. From her position of eminence at the side of the stage, Charlotte’s jewelled spyglasses are raking the boxes at the back of the theatre, scarcely distant enough to merit the enhanced vision. In this manner she lays down her artillery bombardment. Within moments, Lydia is caught again in the crossfire, her sole infantry support the loitering César Gabriel – and he deserts her as soon as he surveys his exposed position.

  Making his hasty retreat, César Gabriel meets Stainville in the corridors behind the boxes.

  “This is an unexpected pleasure, César.”

  “Oh, ah, yes. How d’ye do, cousin. I’ve been, ah, paying my respects to the Comtesse de Guerchy.”

  Stainville’s face flushes with anger. “What on earth are you playing at with her?”

  The smile on César Gabriel’s face at the unintentional pun fades fast. “I didn’t think it would be a cause for concern, Étienne.” Now he finds the pattern of red and silver fleurs-de-lys upon the carpet to be of unexpected interest.

  “Damned right it is. Are you out of your mind? If the Prince gets a sniff of suspicion – and that Boufflers woman is doing her best – then it could jeopardise everything.”

  “I seem to recall I have an engagement in town,” mutters César Gabriel.

  “Please do not allow me to delay you any longer.” Stainville’s hand on his shoulder propels the downcast César Gabriel towards the exit.

  * * *

  The First Act passes in a flutter of fans and a wash of seductive glances. However, these are mere sideshows to the crucial battle; as far as Charlotte can ascertain, the vital breach in the defences has been made. The citadel lies trembling: Lydia is now alone. In the interval, Charlotte’s swift attack wends its way through the crowd, her Chinese fan a rapier, and approaches her victim, beleaguered in her deserted box.

  “Enjoying the play, Lydia?”

  “I daresay. I find Molière a trifle censorious.”

  That rapier fan points at Lydia’s strained face. “You object to his strictures on delusion and hypocrisy?”

  “It would have been easier for us all,” Lydia attempts a world-weary sigh, “if he’d not highlighted their existence.”

  “My Louis-François – I should say the Prince de Conti, of course – enjoys him without measure.” Charlotte glances at her lover, once more in conference with the King. “However I thought your Claude-Louis-François was no devotee of theatricals. Does he not refer to it as ‘a conglomeration of second-rate minds following third-rate ideas through the medium of fourth-rate actions’?” She smiles at her victim.

  “That’s rather good, for him. I wonder where he heard it: there are so many wits in town.” Lydia shivers at the prospect and draws a shawl about her bare arms. “Anyway, whoever said it, he agrees. But he’s not here.”

  Charlotte is full of solicitude. “My dear Lydia, are you on your own? I could swear I saw someone with you earlier.”

  “Just an acquaintance paying a call.” Lydia looks about her to ensure he’s gone. “I’m pleasing myself for a change.”

  Charlotte purrs in triumph. “And where is your esteemed husband?”

  “Somewhere in the service of France.”

  “How wonderful it must be for you to know that he’s so dedicated.” She bends a litt
le to examine, with minute attention, the jewellery around Lydia’s neck. “What splendid pearls!”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m fond of them.”

  “I’m sure I’ve never seen them before.”

  Lydia remembers her own Chinese fan and marshals it in her defence. “Have you not? They were a gift.”

  “From the General?” Charlotte cannot hide her scepticism.

  “Of course. Who else would treat me so?”

  “Such exquisite taste – the craftsmanship of the clasp is so particularly up to date. Only a gentleman of the utmost refinement… where did you say he had gone?”

  Lydia searches wildly for support, but there is none. “I didn’t.”

  “My dear, you can tell me, surely.” Charlotte leans forward again in expectation.

  “If only I could, dearest Charlotte. I don’t even know myself. His mission is clandestine, I understand.”

  “How interesting! A general now manoeuvres without an army. Truly, France has discovered tactics that will confound our enemies.”

  Lydia can find no reply. Satisfied with the results of her advance, considering her opponent now demoralised, Charlotte returns to the Bourbon box.

  As she enters, poised to speak, she sees the Prince raising a finger to his lips. In front of her the Marquise de Pompadour, glittering in a dress of softest rose and dazzling silver, is giving a low curtsey to the King.

  Louis rises with an air of embarrassment from his seat. “I was looking for you on stage, my dear.”

  “We did discuss it, but the part I wanted was taken.” La Pompadour touches his extended hand with her slim fingers.

  “And which part did you wish to play?” The King struggles to recall the cast list. “The mother?”

  The Marquise dismisses this affront. “No, the daughter.”

  “Ah. She is a superb actress but not a patch on you, Pompon.”

  “Really?” La Pompadour senses an opportunity. “I am sure she would be thrilled for you to tell her in person, Sire. Leaving the comparison aside.”

  “You think so?” Louis looks up. He is committed to the meeting, he can see. His mistress always delivers, that he knows. Let’s pray he’s thinking of the right one. “I would love to congratulate her. Please arrange it for me, if it’s not too much trouble.”