The Chevalier

by The Chevalier (retail) (epub)

  Lord Douglas also fears a vengeful Stanislaus, and is further keen to steer clear of Tubingen so that he is not reminded of his own fumbling attempts upon my chastity. We are both hell-bent upon avoiding Frederick’s armies and those of his likely enemies, who are massing on all sides on Prussia’s boundaries.

  As for Monin, it appears he just wants to reach Paris as fast as possible and claim his pay and bounty, an aim with which I do not disagree, but one that is doomed to disappointment by our natural caution.

  This means we travel by a circuitous route, without staying for long in any place. We skirt populous Berlin and zigzag through the swarm of German states and principalities that make foreign policy on France’s eastern borders so hazardous a business. Our weaving haste is justified – at every halt, I have the growing feeling we are only one step ahead of implacable pursuers.

  They never materialise. Or, if they do, we gain no evidence of their proximity. Soon we are gazing on the blessed sight of the Rhine and looking across that natural frontier at France.

  * * *

  Our carriage rattles on the cobblestones near the Pont Royal on the south bank of the Seine. Through a light snowfall I glance across the waters at the Louvre and Tuileries. Street lamps are being lit along the great length of these two mighty royal residences, although no one can recall the last time the King stayed the night in either of them. My protector slumbers on, oblivious. Meanwhile, grateful for this moment of reflection, I turn my head and look along the Quai de Conti and up to the shuttered, empty townhouse of my mentor. We have come full circle. Monin raps three times on the roof. Now my guardian jerks awake: the peace is broken.

  “Almost home, Lord Douglas,” I say. “This is where I leave you.”

  “Really?” He yawns. “I hope we meet again.”

  “I’m sure we shall.” I trust we shan’t.

  He pulls on his coat, and, after losing a fight against his conscience, helps me with mine. “I feel I know you well.”

  “You’ve been such a scintillating companion.”

  “Mademoiselle, you’ve never failed to amuse. Here we are.”

  The carriage stops outside the darkened stone building precisely opposite the Hôtel de Gesvres. My Lord holds the door open for me and I descend. Monin climbs down with my luggage, dumping the bags in an uneven pile on the cracked paving stones. “All right to leave them here?” His goblin eyes are glinting.

  “Evidently,” I say.

  My Lord senses a final opening. “We can deliver them to a place of your choice.”

  “Thank you, but no. I must determine that with all speed.” I curtsey to him, and extend an arm. “Goodbye.”

  “Until the next time.” He almost smiles as he closes the coach door. My long-time moving prison clatters off. Once it is safely out of sight, I hail a carriage pulled by the speedy horses enragés. “Please load these bags and take them to the Palace de Conti in Versailles.” The brute of a driver refuses to appear impressed. Such a commission also deprives me of nearly all my remaining silver.

  This is a conundrum. I am home, yet rootless and impecunious. I look around me, but find no inspiration. The snow is not yet settling. The river is muddy, with shards of ice, and the wintry streets and houses in a far worse state than I recall. The city resembles a crumbling warren. Either Paris has changed – or I have.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Report

  As the carriage containing my bags vanishes into the dusk, I consider how I should proceed. I have to remind myself to be aware that any woman loitering long outside at this cold season might be mistaken for the wrong type of fruit- or flower-seller. There must be no hitch: there can be no wasted moments. I need to converse with the Prince de Conti, but there is another call that I must make first, if I can. Grasping my volume of Montesquieu, I withdraw another piece of parchment from the hidden sleeve. On it’s a note, scribbled in haste when Guerchy was slumbering. I tie it with ribbon, summoning a messenger from his place beside the bridge.

  “Please take this to the address I have inscribed. Only the person named must receive it and they alone must know of it. I will wait here for a reply. There’ll be an extra louis d’or for your trouble.” He wipes some condensation from his running, purple nose and slopes off as though he were doing me a favour, rather than relieving me of the last of my coinage.

  Within an hour he has returned, by which time I have avoided too many covetous eyes and am starting to lose all feeling in my ears, nose, toes and fingers. My lips are chapped and cracking, but I have my answer – and the messenger has his reward. I stamp my booted feet again upon the frozen ground, and decide which route to take. If the first person crosses the bridge from south to north, I follow them. On the other hand, if it is a traveller from north to south… and it is.

  So I make my way down past the high front of St Germain through narrow, well-known lanes to the south of the Church, checking at every corner for pursuers. I wind up in a street I wasn’t sure I’d see again. The world is quiet, as my knocks echo about the courtyard walls. At last, the door opens a touch.

  “Is the Comtesse d’Ons-en-Bray within?” I ask the housekeeper

  “I will see for you, Mademoiselle. Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Mademoiselle Lia d’Éon de Beaumont. I’m the sister of a former lodger of hers.”

  After a longer wait, the maid conducts me not to Madame’s sitting room, but into her bedchamber. The stench of death lies all around: down corridors, upon the wall hangings, oozing everywhere, though scented candles placed at intervals mask the decay.

  Disembodied words assail me as I creep into the room, under orders to be quiet.

  “Yes, you can.” I search for the source: the old lady’s voice comes from beneath the bed linen.

  “What, Madame?”

  A wheezing sigh answers me before she explains: “Have your room back.”

  “But I think you misunderstand – I am his sister, as I told your maid.”

  “Don’t trouble to deceive a dying woman. I am able to tell these things. I can’t see you, but I can smell you, sir. It doesn’t matter who you say you are. Never fear, though. I won’t be telling anyone in my condition.” She coughs for at least half a minute after this outburst.

  During her speech and its aftermath, I calculate fast that the benefits the room has to offer me outweigh the drawbacks of any unlikely betrayal. Besides, further denial might cause her to expire on the spot. “Madame, you are too kind.”

  “Not a bit. I was too harsh on you before.” A further blast of coughing ensues. She takes deep, rasping breaths in order to regain her strength. “The late Comte would have wanted it, you see. You’re foolish, yes, but that’s no crime. Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on. I saw the Regent in my young days. There’s nothing new, you see. Nothing new.” Her subsequent tumultuous fit brings in the maid and, shortly thereafter, I am ushered away, in possession of my old key and my correspondence. The news from Burgundy is mixed. My mother Françoise, says my godfather, is out of danger and progressing well. Yet Victoire writes, more recently, that my case to gain our château is no nearer a conclusion.

  * * *

  In a flurry of driving snow, an unmarked coach draws up at the Hôtel Bourgogne, hard by Saint Eustache, with Lydia inside. Within the portals, the Marquise de Pompadour is rehearsing dancers for the ballet she will put on at the Comédie Italienne. Hordes of delicious female forms are pirouetting round the taller yet slender figure of the royal mistress. Lydia enters the auditorium and watches the graceful movements of teacher and pupils unobserved for some moments, until the Marquise says it’s time for work to halt.

  “Hello there!” Lydia calls down to the stage.

  La Pompadour looks up at the back of the theatre: “Lydia de Guerchy, isn’t it? You will keep this secret, I trust. I intend a surprise for His Majesty.”

  “You have my word, Marquise.” Lydia begins to sashay down the central aisle to meet her.

  “Well,
it’s nice to see you here, of course, but I cannot believe you would prefer the rough working to a polished performance.”

  “On the contrary. I find the preparation fascinating,” says Lydia as she reaches the stage. “Although I wanted to see you,” she lowers her voice. “Not these ballet girls.”

  “You have something you wish to discuss?”

  Lydia nods, hesitates, and takes the chair the Marquise offers her. “I’ve word from Étienne de Stainville. You don’t approve of my liaison.” La Pompadour’s cool gaze compels her to go on. “With his cousin.”

  “You are correct.” The Marquise sits down next to Lydia. “Your indiscretion was on view to all at the Prince de Conti’s theatre. It is vital that you sever the attachment.”

  “Why object? Not on moral grounds? You’re a long-serving mistress yourself.”

  La Pompadour purses her lips. “Do not labour under any delusion on that score, my dear Lydia. My objections are solely based on reasons of state.”

  “Is that a fact?” Lydia eyes her sideways. “There is another issue.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Madame, I’m aware of a secret liaison. Between you and de Stainville.”

  “Really? I thought you were going to tell me something I don’t know. This is most disappointing.”

  “Maybe so,” says Lydia. “The King might be interested.”

  “You little fool, do you truly believe the King and I don’t have an understanding? Where do you reckon he finds his young girls?” La Pompadour’s eyes, grey and hard, flicker over to some of the dancers, pacing the stage in different states of undress. Yes, quite a few of these girls will grace the Parc-aux-Cerfs after he has feasted on their disciplined cavortings in the theatre.

  “If he knew about my husband,” Lydia continues. “Employed by you as a simulacrum. In the place of Lord Douglas…”

  The Marquise reaches for a fan. “You’re meddling in matters way above your station. These things do not concern you.”

  “They touch upon my family life.”

  “Family life!” La Pompadour’s fan rattles the side of the chair. “You are quite ready to put that aside when César Gabriel comes knocking.”

  “He’s merely consoling me. For the Comte’s duplicity and boorishness.”

  “Your husband may be no intellectual, I grant you that. But, listening to you, he has my sympathy.”

  “Madame, he’s nothing but a tyrant.” Lydia’s breasts are rising and falling with increasing speed.

  “And you, my dear, are little more than a drudge. Étienne told me you were a beauty. From a distance at the Molière I thought he might be right. Yet now, close to, I find myself of a different opinion.” The Marquise unleashes a smile of exquisite condescension. “You are exceeding plain. Please don’t disturb my girls on your way out.”

  * * *

  The Annual Fair of St Germain is in full swing. The square is crowded with most of the rich folk in Paris and all of the people who wish to make them less so. Above us, the great Church looms, its grey tower merging into a grey sky. I cannot see Marie at first, although I have arranged to meet her on the south side, where the little lanes crowd pell-mell upon each other as they branch off towards the austere St Sulpice. At last I spot her, nestling close to a brazier, guarding against the cold. My throat is suddenly constricted. She looks alone, forlorn; I want so much to be her guardian, her love. I move through the crush as fast as I can. When I draw nearer, Marie sees me. More than anything, I wish to rush into her arms, but I dare not: she’s stiff, anxious, shivering slightly – and she’s right. It is not safe to play too public a game. We embrace, more out of form – like distant sisters – than in passion.

  “Most glad you got my note,” I say. “Thank you for your reply. I came straight here as soon as I could.”

  “It’s good, very good to see you. I’ve been worried sick.” Indeed, she does appear to be carrying some illness.

  My hands lie still about her shoulders. “Don’t you believe in me?”

  “Yes, but so much can go wrong.”

  “I did it, though.” Lifting her head, I make her look me in the eye. How much I want to kiss those frozen lips.

  “You’ve got the treaty?”

  “Well, I’ve secured the agreement. The treaty is almost in the bag, all the next person has to do is turn up.”

  She can only manage a weak smile at my success. “So did you miss me?”

  “Of course. I thought of you every day.” And it’s true – well, almost – but it is also fair to say that I have been, of necessity, living very much in the present. I think if she knew all, she would prefer I had thought of her more, a confidence I do not intend yet to share.

  A long, cold gust of wind from the north-east makes her shudder hard. “I cannot believe that you were ever lonely?”

  “Yet there you’re wrong. For many days and nights all the way across Europe I was alone, craving companionship.”

  “Not in Russia itself, surely? If you were successful, you must have been fully occupied.”

  I admit that it was so. “However, you’d be surprised to learn the identity of my best friend. A twelve-year-old, Katya, niece of the Count Woronzov. She accompanied me to the Palace, slept in my bed and was my bosom confidante throughout.”

  “Sleeping with you?” Her blue eyes harden and lance through me.

  “Marie! Not thirteen years old, I say. We were friends, nothing more.”

  She studies me until some aspect of my innocence with Katya transmits itself to her. “Very well. I want to hear everything. But I have to go to Nangis tonight. I’ve received warning of interference.”

  “Where shall we meet?”

  “Someone has offered me a safe house in Senlis.” She thrusts a piece of paper in my hand. “Come to the Place d’Église there a week today.”

  * * *

  The final rehearsal of the ballet is in progress. La Pompadour smiles in satisfaction: music and dance are coming together in a fine aesthetic spectacle, the young girls dazzling in their slender costumes. With no compulsion to guide matters on stage, she huddles in the back row of the theatre with Guerchy and Stainville, as though convincing critics of the rectitude of her dance movements and tableaux.

  “So the point of her visit was?” In green flashes, the Marquise’s eyes dart from her companions to the stage and back again.

  “She stayed very close to the Empress Elizabeth,” says Guerchy. “My spies informed me she was rarely out of sight.”

  “What was she about?” The Marquise licks those rose-petal lips. “Louis would never have sent her there just as a governess.”

  Guerchy waits a moment for effect. “They used to share the same bed.”

  “Really? The Empress likes girls?”

  “There are plenty of men as well, of course.” Guerchy chuckles with virile benevolence. “She’s not known for self-denial.”

  “The young harlot is easy on the eye,” says Stainville.

  La Pompadour is imagining the scenario. Her mind drifts to frills and lace, and gentle strokes and sighs. “You’re sure of this?”

  “Yes.” Guerchy pauses again. “And I think there’s still more to her than meets us at first glance.” Abruptly, the music stops.

  “How do you mean?” The Marquise loses concentration, watching her choreographer berate some hapless young danseuse.

  Guerchy drops his voice to urge his prestigious audience nearer. “She seemed very capable of looking after herself.”

  “Carry on,” La Pompadour addresses her dance director, and then swivels her focus back upon Guerchy. “Well, General?” The music returns to life.

  “Whatever danger we were in, she escapes. There is a fracas in a German inn on the way, but she’s the only one who comes up smelling of roses. Just a few weeks ago on our return through Prussia, some brigands hold us up, outnumber us and knock me and my servant out cold. Cowards that they were,” scoffs Guerchy. “But she, also pummelled into apparent unc
onsciousness by these same ruffians, stays awake just long enough to spot our rescuer, a mysterious swordsman in white.”

  “Very strange,” agrees Stainville.

  “The bandits are all dead when we come round.” Guerchy leans back, both arms outspread, his fingers drumming on the chairbacks in time to the score. “What’s more, my man’s sword had been used to kill one of them.”

  Stainville whistles in sympathy. “Had it, by God?”

  “Indeed. It’s just one of many conundrums.” Guerchy props himself forward again. “There were several other incidents too numerous to bother you with now.”

  “Did you find out who she was?”

  The General shakes his head. “No more than she discovered me.”

  “I want you to keep searching. This is vital for us – and for France.”

  “Don’t worry. I will.”

  “And Monsieur de Guerchy, one final question: do you like the girls?” She waves towards the young danseuses.

  “They are most radiant, Madame. Instructed well by your fair self, no doubt?”

  “I play my part. But would you like to assist in such instruction? Before, say, the King can make his pas de deux?” She flashes him a wicked smile.

  “Marquise, you are so kind. However, I have a wife awaiting me at home…”

  Stainville sniffs, but says nothing.

  “You have a wife, General, but not one who waits long at your home. Look to your spouse, sir.” La Pompadour is grave. “That is my advice.”

  * * *

  In his sumptuous mansion at Versailles, one which would be quite magnificent were it not dwarfed in grandeur by the Royal Palace, Conti receives me with all grace. I visit him in character. To avoid unwanted comment and intrusion on the way, I am clad again in my sister’s black dress, though this stratagem almost backfires, for I evoke many pitying glances at so young a widow – and have in consequence to turn down several offers of assistance from jaded courtiers.