The Chevalier

  His bow is eager. “Welcome back, my sweet young thing.”

  “It is an honour and a pleasure to be here once more, Monsieur le Prince.” I make as if to curtsey but he flicks my politesse aside.

  “And congratulations upon a job well done,” he says, offering me a glass of that slight, bubbling wine from the nearby vineyards of Champagne.

  “Thank you.”

  He pauses as he is about to drink. “Or should I say half a job?”

  “I don’t follow.” The wine seeps up into my nasal passage from my throat, leaving an acrid taste. I must say I find myself happier with a Chablis or, better still, a Tonnerrois. Such whites are fuller, more reliable, with less chance of causing nausea.

  “Instructions were for you to bring Russia over to us and to prepare the way for my accession in Warsaw. Your ciphers told me many things. Elizabeth wants to make an alliance; Lord Douglas is not who he says; you also claim I have a rival for Poland?” Ambition radiates from his keen eyes.

  I’m learning to treat all these various shades of monomania with care. “True. A resourceful young fellow – by no means your equal, of course – but he does have the twin merits of being Polish and on the spot. Well, just about.”

  “And how popular is he in the country?”

  “That, Prince, I cannot say. However, I can tell you that he has fast made himself indispensable in St Petersburg. He works as secretary to the English Ambassador, he is well liked by the Tsarina and many members of the Court, and he is pursuing an attachment, ill-fated I believe, with the Grand Duchess Catherine. If granted access by her, I can assure you – from my own experience – he is likely to prove an ardent lover.” The Prince raises an eyebrow. “He will have the opportunity,” I continue, “a fine position as Ambassador from Saxony to the Petersburg Court has been arranged for him.”

  “So he has some advantages, I grant.” Conti ponders the possibilities a few seconds, weighing the political ramifications. “Now this Elizabeth remains unmarried?”

  “As far as we know. There are many rumours she has long been wed to a loyal retainer, Razumovsky, although he is content to remain in the background.” By the Black Virgin, I think, if he cannot be King of Poland, surely he will not wish to be Emperor-Consort of all the Russias?

  “From all accounts, she is not a celibate woman.”

  As if that would deter him – indeed, his cherry-picking would be mere reciprocation. “There are two main favourites, Count Mikhail Woronzov and Ivan Shuvalov. She divides her favours between them.”

  “And what if she were to receive a proposal of marriage from a Prince of the Blood?” I was right. How fast the priorities of the great do change.

  “I’m sure Her Majesty would consider it a great honour.”

  “Excellent.” The Prince’s inbuilt arrogance makes him believe so, too. “I thank you for your trouble.” He turns as though our audience were at an end.

  “Is that all you have to say?” I cannot keep some asperity from invading my tone.

  “I gave you my congratulations. It’s a great start.”

  I nearly choke at his insouciance. “What? I’ve done everything you asked.”

  “Well, yes…”

  “So I should be rewarded.” How I wish for a military uniform to state my case! These delicate situations are harder to handle in a woman’s mourning black.

  “My dear d’Éon, it doesn’t always work like that.” Seeing he cannot fob me off, he takes the bottle up once more.

  “Why not? I need my title and estates.”

  The Prince pours both of us another glass, the bubbles fizzing so they overflow and trickle down the sides, onto the lacquered table. “This mission was secret – and the King won’t declare his hand till the outcome’s assured.”

  “So I have to wait?”

  “Perhaps I should have made this clear.” Rather too late in the day, he chinks his crystal glass with mine. “We don’t do these things for ourselves.” He could have fooled me. “Didn’t you say you wished to serve the King?”

  “Of course.”

  “It means just that. Not that the King wishes to serve us. Duty comes before pleasure.” He smiles with all the bland conviction of a man who knows his pleasure is awaiting him upstairs.

  “But my duty is my pleasure. Don’t you see?” I raise my hands to cross themselves over my breast. “The two are interlinked. I have been working towards true liberty, as you should certainly recall. I must set my own life free.”

  “Noble sentiments, my little d’Éon. Freedom, however, is an illusion.” He shakes his head in sorrow. “You’ll find it often depends on another’s whim.”

  * * *

  Light snows are still swirling around the park at Nangis. Little flakes patter against the iced windowpanes of the old castle, flecking the turrets and battlements with whitish grey. On either side of a dying fire, Guerchy and Marie are seated in the drawing room, wrapped in cloaks against the cold. Anxious not to confront him, she finds her gaze drawn to damp spots upon the leaking walls.

  “You’ve been travelling in my absence, I hear?” Guerchy’s handsome head is rigid, his eyes trained upon her.

  “No more than I was obliged to do.” She glances briefly at his granite chin.

  “That’s not what I’ve been told. The servants say you have seldom been at home.”

  Marie looks away in resentment. “It is no business of theirs.”

  “Maybe not, but once I learn of it, it becomes mine. And I know now. Still, maybe we can discuss matters without rancour.” He reaches behind his chair and brings out a large wrapping of light paper and silk. He makes as if to weigh the contents; they are light in his hands. “I might be prepared to overlook some of these indiscretions on your part if you’re willing to help me.”

  “I will, as ever, do my best.”

  “So glad you’re in a sensible mood. It’d be a pity to lose your place in society for lack of funds. Now who is she?”

  He unfolds the package – Marie recoils at her first glimpse of its contents. The unveiling is gradual: she watches spellbound as he puts her favourite clothing on display. Now there can be no question. He knows. Guerchy cradles the necklace of pearls and the scarlet dress in his hands, eyeing her all the while.

  “Why are you so sure it’s the same person?”

  “No other dress like this exists in Paris. At least, not owned by a beddable woman. I’ve had the matter checked. Only you know her real name.”

  Before she can restrain herself, Marie blurts out: “Maybe, but I haven’t journeyed across Europe with her.”

  “How in hell’s name did you know that?”

  “It has not been so difficult to work out.”

  Guerchy ponders a moment. “You mean you’ve seen her since she returned?”

  “Possibly.” Marie is in turmoil. Why did she bring this on herself?

  “And what if I do say that I’ve been travelling with her?”

  An opening! Marie unleashes a slow smile. “I might expect a certain degree of knowledge and understanding.”

  “Do you think we revealed everything about ourselves?”

  “I’ve no doubt you were most professional.”

  “Naturally. I wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardise the mission. But that’s over.” Guerchy springs to his feet. “If you want to preserve your freedom and your position, you must help me. Now. I must have her.”

  “Control your lust. She’s not for you.” Marie’s blue eyes flash defiance.

  “So I suppose she was just for the Empress?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He smirks at her confusion. “Yes, she was Elizabeth’s playmate all the time.”

  “You’re sure of this?”

  “My sources are impeccable. There’s no doubt the Empress has certain… tendencies.”

  A sudden wail escapes from Marie. “But how could he?”

  He laughs at first, then looks puzzled – Marie’s face is etched with misery. Moment by
moment, Guerchy starts to make sense of it all.

  * * *

  As dusk falls, I shed my gown, put on my plain grey jacket and breeches, and cover myself in my most nondescript grey coat. It seems odd to be dressed this way, but I have little choice. I slink into the whitened Rue de Tournon and ghost through quiet streets to the Generalité. My former colleagues will have all gone home, I’m sure. I know my old superior will be working late.

  “So you’re coming back to me, eh?” The bald dome of de Savigny’s forehead wrinkles as he smiles, showing a contoured map of nut-like lines.

  My former office seems unchanged at least. “I fear not, Monsieur.”

  “You’re in town, aren’t you? I can see you, plain as day.” A candle sputters.

  “Yes, but I have many obligations which I must fulfil.”

  “Obligations? Only the wealthy have them! When I’m already aware that you are not a man of substance or of property… without wishing to be rude, don’t you know? It just doesn’t add up.” He thinks a moment. “Ah, I see the picture! She’s a wealthy woman, this girl of yours, and she’s been paying for you to bounce around with her. It’s clear to me now.” He cackles at his assumed percipience.

  “I regret that I’m not at liberty to say.” Really, the grossness of his imagination has no limits. But I might as well play along.

  “Hah! Protecting the good name of a lady, I’ll warrant. Married piece, is she? Well, you stick to your guns, you lucky rascal. You keep mum, as it were. Heh, heh! Wish I’d got the chance to do what you’re doing, but those days are over, more’s the pity. Mind you don’t wear yourself out whilst you’re entertaining her, won’t you?”

  “Sir, I can only thank you for your kind thoughts over my welfare.” Taking the line of least resistance, I am content to allow him to indulge his ribald fantasies.

  “Delighted, dear boy – so why are you here?”

  “Apart from the pleasure of seeing you again, I wish for an advance of funds until my case is resolved, or my, er, benefactor should be back in town. If that might be possible, sir?”

  “Benefactress, don’t you mean?” He laughs uproariously – I raise a feeble smile. “That can be arranged. How much do you need?”

  * * *

  Once more in funds, I change my dress and take the diligence from Paris to Chantilly, transferring to a horse and cart for the last stretch. There has been another light sprinkling of snow. As dusk begins to fall, I wander the streets of Senlis. It seems as though the small town is unoccupied. No other footprints line the streets and I see nothing down the proliferation of close, deserted alleys. There is not even a glimmer of light at any streetside window, until at length I come upon the Place d’Église and see some lamps, a sleeping dog and other signs of life. I find the address I have been given and knock. And knock again. But no answer comes: the house is empty.

  In disbelief, I wait for several minutes, rapping every so often until I begin to fear that I will attract attention, even if only from the dog. It is also devilish cold. I turn and walk away. Just down the road in the next square, there is a quiet inn. After some negotiation – the innkeeper appears amazed a woman should be wanting rooms on her own – I make my camp. Yet again, the widow’s weeds are a useful, if temporary, bulwark against questioning.

  * * *

  Leaving before his wife makes her return, Guerchy rides hard away from Nangis through a welcome morning thaw. Skirting Paris to the south along the many royal hunting lanes, he arrives at Bellevue around midday. From her table in the airy dining room that looks down upon the Seine, La Pompadour invites him for a light luncheon. A fire crackles in the grate: Guerchy takes his seat opposite her and Stainville.

  “How is your wife, General?” Stainville helps himself to a slice of ham.

  Guerchy scowls. “I have not seen her since my return.”

  “You’re bearing our advice in mind, I trust,” says the Marquise.

  “Each passing day just makes me more resolved,” agrees Guerchy.

  “I’m sure you’ll do the right thing,” she soothes. “Now, sir, to business. You were saying in your message Marie gave you important news about our little friend?”

  “I tell you, she appeared so mortified after she had spoken, that I am convinced it must be true.” Guerchy shakes his head. “That governess is a man!”

  There’s a stunned silence. From miles away, a hunting horn sounds faint but clear.

  “Are you quite sure of this, General?” asks Stainville.

  “It explains so many things that happened on that wretched journey.”

  “And you think that’s the real story? If so, he’s fooled us all along.” La Pompadour considers a moment. “We’ll have to pay him back in kind.”

  The prospect of revenge transforms Guerchy’s demeanour from one of brooding menace to enthusiasm. “Nothing would be a greater delight for me, Marquise.”

  “Can you conjure something, Étienne?” La Pompadour stirs her cup of chocolate.

  The Comte de Stainville smiles. “I suspect it can be arranged.”

  * * *

  Two peacocks squawk in ecstatic counterpoint across their Versailles playground. Two noble bewigged heads bob in unison: Louis and Conti are meandering together around the gardens of the Trianon. It is late in the afternoon – within a minute, the pale skies darken, and they are deluged by a sudden cold shower of rain.

  “Your Majesty, I have a report that will much interest you.”

  “Quite, quite.” Louis shelters under an umbrella held for him by the ageing but solicitous Lebel. “Come with me, my Prince, I also have something to show you.”

  They walk away from the wing of the Trianon over a small bridge onto a secluded lawn, lined with a profusion of flowers, plants, and herbs.

  “Our little friend has performed miracles on his travels.”

  “Excellent.” Yet the King is looking elsewhere. “Now this is my private garden. There are plants here from all over the world. I have hundreds, thousands of people who want to come and see what I’ve done for myself. Learned men, famous horticulturalists and botanists, many of them. I must say I’m quite flattered.”

  Conti, quite unprotected from the elements, flicks his now sodden wig. “As I am honoured to see it, Sire. You’ve heard Russia has signed that memorandum to reverse the alliances? You must recall, the one d’Éon took with him?”

  “Very good, very good.” To the right, as they squelch down a path between the flower beds, is a small summer dining room. Louis indicates it with the cane in his free hand. “We call this the cool room, d’you see, because of all that marble. Look at that fine wood panelling – Verberckt, of course.”

  “Delightful, Sire. And the Chevalier has found out that I may have a rival for the throne of Poland.”

  “Oh dear. That’s too bad. Who is it?”

  “Stanislaus Poniatowski, a Count.” The Prince’s brocaded jacket is sticking to his shirt; his shirt is most uncomfortable against his body.

  “Never heard of him. But I suppose I shall. Keep an eye on him anyway. Observe, to the left is my menagerie. I keep them all in there: cows, sheep, goats, hens, you name it.” Louis glows with self-satisfaction. “I have the lot.”

  “Prodigious.” Raindrops are sluicing down Conti’s nose. “But forewarned is forearmed – with your help, Sire, I believe we can see him off.”

  “No doubt, no doubt.”

  “My grateful thanks.” But Conti cannot be sure whether the King’s taken in a word – and, even if he has, how much will be remembered in the fullness of time.

  They come to a sharp halt in the centre of the gardens beside a white pavilion, elegant in its Palladian proportions. Lebel has to slide backwards to protect the royal wig and countenance from the downpour.

  “Verberckt worked on this for me as well. He doesn’t just do commissions for the Marquise, you know. Mind you, I suppose she did discover him. I marvel at her taste.”

  The drenched Prince wonders how soon he can esca
pe to take a warm tub and change his clothes. “I think she is working against us, Sire – counter to your express wishes.”

  “Oh, I know all that. But I can’t really do without her, you see. She is so interesting and she has such accommodating – you know – friends. Talking of which, are you sure our little protégé really isn’t a girl? From time to time, I need someone of a touch more experience than my usual companions. Madame de Courcelles is fine as far as she goes, but I hear she’s now ignoring all my blandishments. Extraordinary.”

  “I’m afraid the Chevalier is indeed a man, Sire.” The Prince feels he is about to transmute into a sea lion.

  “Pity, pity. You wouldn’t think a chap like me could tire of fresh young fillies, but one can. Now, look: I’m thinking of having a new house built just here at the end of the gardens. What do you think? Wonderful position, isn’t it?” He nods his head in approval of his own judgement. “So our Chevalier really is a man, eh? I said it all along.”

  * * *

  The third day of my vigil is drawing to a close. Even the ghosts who appear to be the sole inhabitants of Senlis are starting to notice me. How much longer can I remain? Lost in such conjectures, I am slinking past the secret house once more when I see a dim light glowing from an upstairs casement. Crossing the square, I knock with an urgent rhythm. Thank God, in not too many seconds, I am answered.

  No Violette, no other servant comes. Instead Marie herself peeps out from behind the door, as though fearful to be spotted from the street.

  “My dear Marie, where were you? I’ve called here many times.”

  A strong, beringed hand reaches out to pull me in off the doorstep. “Quick, come inside.”