The Chevalier

  “No trouble for the Well-Beloved.”

  * * *

  It is growing late in the afternoon, a cold wind sweeping the streets of Paris, hustling its citizens homeward to prepare for the evening meal. Lydia hurries past the smell of roasted chestnuts drifting from black braziers outside Saint Sulpice and takes the Rue de Garanolle towards the Palace of Luxembourg. Ducking in by the gate, she soon finds Marie walking among the spacious, tree-lined Gardens, enjoying the last traces of light, and falls into step beside her.

  “I’m glad I find you still about. I was worried you’d moved on.”

  “It’s no hardship for me to wait, Lydia. This is my favourite place in the whole city.”

  “And what do you prefer? Is it the Palace? The flower beds and lawns? Or the view of those hills?”

  “Why, it depends on my mood,” says Marie. “If I wish to engage with the world, I like to watch people strolling on the paths around the park and the palace. If I need to commune with myself, I prefer to look at what the scholars call Montparnasse. And if I wish to dream of earthly treasures, the immediate prospect of the Palace is most pleasing.”

  Lydia’s quick little steps are taking her ahead of her companion. She pauses to allow Marie to draw level. “I admit I’m fretting about you.”

  “Pray, don’t.”

  “Something’s amiss. What’s keeping you?” Lydia awards Marie her most penetrating stare. “We can’t spend long in town. There will be comment.”

  “I shall be travelling back to Nangis presently.” Marie resumes her steady pace, quite unruffled by this inquisition.

  “Good. I should be very much obliged. Guerchy will return soon. He’ll want a record of your actions. I can’t depart from the truth – we need to be safe in the country.”

  “I see,” Marie pauses, and scans the hills of Montparnasse, their outlines fading in the twilight. “Once more, Lydia, I can only thank you for your forbearance.”

  “There is another reason.”

  “Oh?” She can see Violette waving to her from the gates. A message, no doubt.

  “He might want your report. On my comings and goings.”

  “Please rest assured that I shall say nothing, Lydia. Because, you see, I know nothing.”

  “Of course,” says Lydia, picking up speed again as the two ladies near the exit. “Nevertheless. You know how intransigent he is. I don’t want him believing tittle-tattle. He might hear gossip from La Pompadour. Or even the Comtesse de Boufflers.”

  * * *

  The carriage conveying the Comtesse de Boufflers and the Prince de Conti is passing a large farm on the edge of the city. Charlotte wrinkles her nose at the stink from the pigsty and the more lingering smell of horse manure. These pungent aromas seem to stir something in her memory. “Lydia de Guerchy is behaving most oddly at the moment,” she observes.

  “Just look at that sunset. I shall write a verse upon it later,” replies the Prince. “You’re right of course, my dear. The General would drive any decent woman mad.”

  “And confuse most indecent women into the bargain. Even when absent.”

  Three days after the royal party has departed Isle de l’Adam, Conti and Charlotte have managed to put the house, theatre and grounds back in order. Or at least given the necessary commands to his servants, and ensured that they are understood. Now the exigencies of life at Court demand a trip to Versailles, via his house in town. A spymaster and a salon mistress can never rest, as they remind each other with rueful self-importance. The coach leaves the fields behind, and hurries into Paris through the Northern Gates, the caked country mud from its wheels scattering about the cobbled streets.

  “So which do you think she is?” The Prince watches a young woman hitch her skirts and relieve herself into a bucket. “Decent?”

  “Wicked, I’m sure,” says Charlotte, smirking. “With a little lunacy thrown in. It can’t be him that’s causing the derangement of her senses, though.”

  “Why, where on earth is the husband?”

  “That’s the question. No one seems to know.”

  Conti at last tears his eyes from the roadside views. “I’ll ask the network to look into it. He seems too dim to be a real problem, but you can never tell.”

  “When you find him, let me know.” She thinks back. Somewhere – the barge? With the little adventurer? It’s just not possible…

  “In his defence, I do regard her as a trial. He may be lying low with some little trollop.” He chuckles. “I’ve often said he’s not such a fool as he looks.”

  They draw up in the courtyard of the Temple before the Grand Prior’s Palace. Conti surveys his mansion with a proprietorial air, noting some broken masonry, before he springs down to assist the servants in ushering Charlotte from the coach.

  On fashionable display again, the Comtesse shows a graceful leg as she descends. “And Lydia may be silly, but she’s cunning. I do believe she’s conducting a flirtation – and there may be a reason behind it – with César Gabriel de Choiseul.”

  * * *

  Crumbs from a supper of bread and cheese tumbling from his lips, César Gabriel is closing the door behind a slightly flustered Lydia in their Palais-Royal apartment. He turns the key in the lock, and spins round to take hold of her. “My dear, the day must surely come when you arrive on time.”

  “Deserters have no grounds for complaint,” she says, brushing the breadcrumbs from his cheek and chin with her small, manicured hands.

  “You should never have invited me there.”

  Her fussing about his appearance over for the moment, she steps back and begins to take off her coat. “You should not have accepted.” She struggles with a knotted bow. “If you were going to run.”

  “In the Army, we learn we must abandon an untenable position with minimum loss of life.” He helps her remove the long black coat. “You must have gathered that from your late father.”

  “Possibly. One thing I did learn from him. Loyalty: standing shoulder to shoulder with comrades.”

  He places the coat on the chair. “Lydia.” He takes a deep breath.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve something to say to you.”

  “Now, here’s a change. You usually have something to do.”

  “Look, that’s hardly fair, Lydia, I always…”

  “Hush, now.” She shimmies up and kisses him. “Have you ever heard me grumble?”

  He hangs his head, hands resting on her shoulders, toying with the edge of her gown. “No.”

  “Well, then. What’s your point, sir?”

  “The thing is, ah, the fact of the matter is… I can’t see you any more.”

  There’s a long pause – he hears the shouts of the street hawkers filtering through the heavy drapes – while she collects herself. “Don’t be ridiculous, César. Can’t we have a difference of opinion? Just once in a while?”

  “It’s nothing to do with this evening. Well, very little.” He keeps his head bowed low, unwilling to look her in the eye. “Étienne informed me it would be unwise.”

  She gives a brief snort. “And this is your wisdom? Based on subservience to La Pompadour?”

  “I told you we should forget all that.” He grasps her shoulders harder, his grip a little slippery on the silk.

  “How can I? They dare try to control me!” She wrenches herself free. “I’ll expose her to the King. Your cousin’s stock will plummet. And that’s not all: what about my husband’s wanderings? I’ll wager people would be interested.”

  “Lydia, you can’t.” Now his hands are shaking, his tone pleading.

  “I will – I’ll do it all. And soon.” She sinks back upon the bed. “Unless you go on loving me.”

  * * *

  After reading the note conveyed by Violette, Marie hastens to obey Lydia’s request, at least in so far as it involves her leaving town. Her interpretation of this obligation leads her to travel northward to the country estates of the Prince de Conti. She does so in a carriage sent by the Prince
, following him by only a couple of hours.

  An expressionless servant greets her on the river shore, calls a groom to conduct the horse and carriage to the stables a short way downstream, and escorts her across the bridge into the château. They climb some narrowing stairs, and enter a room devoted to scholarship. Looking up with a fleeting smile, Conti rises from his writing desk, a sonnet – troublesome – still incomplete. “Thank you for coming. I hear you’ve been indisposed every time Louis has sent for you.”

  “That’s right. The circumstances have been most unfortunate.”

  The library in the château de l’Isle-Adam lies on the upper storey, facing due south. Motes of dust are rising from the floor, the low sun throwing dazzling shafts of almost horizontal light across the room. Giving a slight cough, Conti puts down his quill pen on the desk and wanders to the window to gaze upon the waters surging below.

  “Yes, you have been very sick, I hear.”

  Marie stands back, striving to stay in partial shadow. “I had to keep to my bed in town and have been, until now, unable to return to the country. Let alone fulfil any royal commands.” Conti turns to regard her through the dust-filled haze; his polished silver scabbard deflects the sun from its path, causing it to assault the side wall at a sharp angle. Clutches of rays bounce off a gilt-framed mirror, piercing the shadow and illuminating her pure face in golden splendour.

  “Yet you seem to me to be remarkably healthy, my dear.”

  “The rest has done me good.”

  “Most glad to hear it.” Conti hesitates mid-stride, considers, takes another pace, and ambles back to his comfortable seat. “You’ll also be eager to have news from our little friend, no doubt?”

  “I should like nothing more.” Marie skitters across towards him in her eagerness.

  “So far, he has been successful.” He brandishes a coded message. “His last communication was from Königsberg – he should be in St Petersburg by now, God willing. Once there, however, we cannot expect to hear any news from him until he returns. Assuming he does, of course.”

  Her legs feel tired all of a sudden. “How dangerous do you think it is?” She leans against his writing desk.

  “Hard to say. But if he does survive the Russian Court, we must hope he makes it back to France before a general European war breaks out.” The Prince indicates a Chippendale chair to her, folds the message and locks it away in a small desk drawer.

  She sits. “Is that a possibility?”

  “My dear, it’s almost inevitable. Yet we must retain faith in our adventurer.” He looks across his desk with what she deems an unexpected smile. “And when he does come home, you will want a place to meet quietly, I should think?”

  “Yes, but where? Paris will be too crowded with spies. Versailles, even more so.”

  “I have a secret house a short ride from here, in the town of Senlis. When my cousin, Louis de Condé, bought the priory there from the Bishop, he also acquired a small dwelling near to the church in a quiet square. I saw him last week at Chantilly and asked him if he would rent it to me.” Another little smile. “You will be undisturbed there.”

  “I thank you, Monsieur le Prince, with all my heart.”

  “You should also thank the King. It was he who suggested such a hiding place as a sound investment.” Although the Prince does not feel obliged to mention that the King was imagining himself receiving the favours of various young ladies – not least Marie – in this secluded spot.

  Marie’s voice drops to a whisper. “Naturally, in due course I will want to thank His Majesty in person.”

  “So you’ll respond to his next call?”

  “If I am well enough.” Marie twists her old wedding ring around her finger. “I’m afraid I cannot be sure.”

  Conti exclaims in anger, sits down, prepares to look through some papers, puts them away, picks up his poem and signals her to leave. She rises and moves towards the solid oak door. He looks up once again as she’s halfway into the passage. “That woman. She’s got at you, hasn’t she?”

  “We each make our own decisions.”

  “That’s precisely what we must all do. And I think it pertinent to remind you that you must choose which side you’re on.” His mild eyes half close, hard forbidding lines beneath them stretching across his cheekbones. “You must be either with us or against us. You’ll be betraying our brave young friend if you play along with her.”

  Now Marie turns back. “What guarantees are you giving me? Or him?”

  “Remember that the glory of a mistress can be short-lived.” He rolls the quill pen about in his hands, the white feathers describing a slow, measured spiral. “The useful life of a man of influence, however, especially that of a cousin of the King, may be extremely long.”

  “Yet if such a royal favourite does not deliver?”

  The Prince waves her a cursory adieu. “He may yet rule far away.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Flight

  Katya’s young hand reaches for the casement – she throws it open, and all the breathtaking cold of a Russian night crowds in. A curdling sound assaults me before I have time to recover from this unwanted intrusion and throw a shawl about my shoulders. Katya’s lament is not dissimilar from how I would imagine the banshee wailing from the mounds of old Ireland in tales told by my nurse Benoist, giving me dread of death to come. The howl rings through our bedchamber, so uncontrolled I fear it’ll wake the Empress. “You are betraying me.”

  “But nothing is further from my mind,” I say, attempting to calm her with my fluttering hands. “Surely you of all people can understand why my father’s death demands that I return?”

  My appeal to reason is misjudged: Katya is on the point of giving way to wild tears. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. Her knowledge of philosophy and the dealings of the world cause me to forget how youthful she is still. “It’s just not fair of you to mention that,” she cries.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you would take it this way.” I should have done, of course. I have been remiss.

  “We were becoming such good friends. In fact, I’d say you were my very, very best friend.” She starts to sob, gulping for air. “You can see how I need one here, can’t you?”

  I hug her as close as I dare, taking care not to flatten my breast against hers. “There’s Catherine.”

  “Yes, but look how her time is taken up with Saltykov.” Katya gulps, wipes her eyes, heaves halting breaths and makes a huge effort to cease her lamentation. “She only uses me to pass the vacant hours between her, you know, assignations. Oh, and sparring with the Grand Duke.”

  “You underestimate the love she has for you.”

  “Too true, she likes me well enough. But she’ll desert me when she no longer needs me. Just like you all do.” She’s about to let loose her tears again. “I really thought we had something special between us.” Her sweet young face looks up at me.

  I’ll soon start sobbing myself at this rate. “We do, we do. I’ll try to come back to you, Katya, I swear.”

  “You must, Lia. Oh please. Promise me you will, promise.” I do.

  She manages to fall asleep in the end, which is more than I can. Excitement at what I must accomplish is running through my system, hot lava chasing cold mercury. My plans are made and I put trust in them – yet I am well aware that there are many little things that might go wrong, at every step of the way.

  Just after dawn, I slip out of the wooden Winter Palace. The towering Nikolai and two more of the Tsarina’s personal guards are already loading my bags upon the roof of a sleek coach. So much for not abetting me – upon consideration, she has been good enough to lend me one of her private fleet. No one else is there to bid me farewell; I thank Nikolai and prepare to leave the city as quietly as I came.

  More so, considering the sham Lord Douglas is not with me.

  Soon, we are speeding away from my Petersburg home. I hold my breath as we slice through the streets, but no warning shouts ring out. Only the ear
ly workmen and a smattering of late-night roisterers are abroad. In mere minutes, the imperial carriage approaches the gate leading south from the city on the road to Pskov. We slow down, but all seems well. Saluting the two-headed eagle, the guards are preparing to wave us through, when there is a small commotion, and the lugubrious shape of Bestuchev steps from the gatehouse. He waves to my driver to stop. My heart misses three beats, and ice chills my blood: in the dawn light, his forehead seems more broad and his lips thinner. His open mouth remains a range of crumbling ruins.

  “Mademoiselle d’Éon de Beaumont! I did not expect to find you in one of Her Majesty’s coaches.” Yet the self-satisfaction on his face shows that he is dissembling.

  “She is good enough to offer me transport to the border, Chancellor.”

  “Leaving so soon?” His tone drips venom.

  “A letter from home has just arrived. My father’s dying.”

  “Such a shame. Let’s pray it is a false alarm. We were all hoping to become enamoured of the French tongue.” I think I catch him wink at me. How I abhor his foreign coarseness. “Our ministers were lining up to learn from you.”

  “I’m flattered to hear it.”

  “Perhaps you can leave us something of these teachings?” He signals to the now zealous city guards, who drag down my cases and begin to trawl through them. My papers spill out upon the snow, where they are left to eddy in circles in the early morning breeze. One of the guards hands Bestuchev the volumes of Diderot, Voltaire and Montesquieu. He scans them with a look of utter repugnance. “This is what you read to her?”

  “Whenever she wishes, yes.”

  He thumbs through the books in turn, so fast I’m sure he thinks the pages carry infections. “Every word in French, I see. I’ve no doubt the sentiments are very fine, but what do these people know of Russia?”