The Chevalier

by The Chevalier (retail) (epub)

  “Were you undone?” I find I’m breathing hard.

  She nods. “I’ve been held fast in Nangis. Guerchy has been questioning me: I think my protector knows everything. Or, at the very least, that the beauty he saw at the Opéra and the lectrice he accompanied east are one and the same.”

  “So it was him,” I purse my lips. “That might explain why the supposed metallurgist Lord Douglas had such vast gaps in his knowledge.” I remove my cloak.

  “But as Guerchy he now has very few,” she reminds me. “And he can soon erase them by using his influence. Not to mention the power of those supporting him.”

  “La Pompadour and her pet poodle?”

  “Don’t underestimate Stainville, my little one.”

  I feel rocked by her revelations. The success of my mission, which I thought inviolate on my return, is again in doubt. “So what should I do?”

  “You can no longer hope to pass here as a woman.” She appraises me in my grey governess’s dress. “You must again become a man.”

  Part III

  Man

  Chapter Twenty

  Return

  I dally over a view of the sunlit, frozen gardens westward of Versailles. Resplendent in my new – though showy – lime green jacket and breeches, I turn my back upon the reddening skies, and lounge by a high window with my mentor. The Prince’s boyish face is marked with late-sprung lines and he has dark rings like stagnant pools beneath his eyes; his hands are running to and fro along the sill. The sounds of a concert drift in from the Queen’s Apartments. I concentrate and strain my ears – the music plods with arid splendour, chilled and inexorable, to its conclusion – another overrated piece by Rameau. The spineless Rouillé, who somehow remains our Foreign Minister, is conversing with two similar beanpoles, the Duc de Broglie, and (the Prince whispers to me) his brother, the Comte de Broglie. General laughter recedes from their grouping like an evening tide: it seems a good tale is just ending.

  One of the Broglie brothers breaks away and wanders across the sea of polished board towards us. His near twin soon quits Rouillé’s company and follows him. I’ve met the Duc, of course, but I could not say which one he is. Unless related to them, maybe in some maternal way, it is almost impossible to tell them apart: both are exceptionally tall, ramrod-straight, spruce in coats of pale fawn satin trimmed with silver lace, the two of them with faces that, though not unkind, clearly express the satisfaction they and their few peers have found in life’s unfolding.

  “Good Lord, you look familiar, sir!” exclaims one, as he approaches me. He must, I take it, be the Duc.

  “I’m afraid I’ve not had the honour,” I respond, bowing low.

  His thin, long features register his bafflement. “Are you sure? Your name, if you please.”

  “Charles, the Chevalier d’Éon de Beaumont.”

  “Hah! That must be it – have you a sister, Chevalier?”

  “Indeed, I have,” I say, with perfect truth.

  He turns to my mentor: “Convinced I met her at one of your gatherings, Monsieur le Prince.”

  “Quite possible. I think I remember the occasion,” Conti agrees.

  I smile at the Duc in my most virile fashion. “That would explain things. It was, you see, through her I met the Prince.”

  “Just so. Did I not tell you, brother?” He nudges Broglie. The younger sibling nods his assent.

  “My Lords, you must assist me, please,” I say. “The Prince has informed me of your names while you were enjoying a merry discussion with our Foreign Minister.” Rouillé is now standing alone and lugubrious by the fireplace. “But how am I, on first acquaintance, to tell you apart?”

  “Easy, my dear sir,” replies the Duc. “I am the older, by a year, and hence I have inherited our father’s title. I am named Victor-François after my father and grandfather and, for all I know, many others beforehand. And I am at least a centimetre taller.”

  The other Broglie shakes his head. “Still, I can understand your difficulty, Chevalier. I admit the disparity in our ages, as a result of which I am the mere Comte de Broglie. It is quite true that I was christened Charles-François, with a dash of exoticism unparalleled in our family history. However, my brother has a mere millimetre over me, and that is due solely to the advantage of military boots over diplomatic shoes.”

  I examine their footwear. The point is debatable – indeed, I am sure they have debated it for many years – but not worth pursuing unless I wish to become mired in complex fraternal competition. “Where do you represent us, Comte?”

  “I am the Most Christian King’s Ambassador in Poland. Interesting place, I’ve found. Fine women; charming people; lawless beyond measure. They only have one dirty word there: organisation.” Broglie turns from me to address Conti. “Any idea what this royal audience is about?”

  “None whatsoever, my dear sir,” responds the Prince. “Although I have delivered a report recently to His Majesty.”

  “Do tell me more, Monsieur le Prince.” Broglie lowers his voice, which has been rivalling his elder brother’s for parade ground resonance.

  Bending forward, Conti whispers: “It concerns our prospects for making an alliance in the East. With Russia, if you can keep it discreet.”

  “Fascinating,” says Broglie. “I did hear something, now you mention it. My Warsaw friends tell me a young governess passed through their city on her way out there.”

  “That was the gist of it. A quite remarkable achievement for a woman,” says Conti, gesturing to include me in the conversation, scooping me into the charmed circle, as it were. “Incidentally, the Chevalier is an author, you know, who also has great clerical skills. He has been assisting me in some of the planning. For this reason, I have invited him along today: it will be his debut.”

  This heralds another period of scrutiny. I am suddenly only too aware of the brothers’ reputations as bon vivants. “Enchanting. Such delicacy of feature,” observes Broglie. “Your sister must be an exceeding pretty little thing.”

  “Your Excellency is more than kind.” My toes pointing outward at right angles, I bow low once more. “I believe she far outshines me.”

  “Indeed.” Broglie keeps peering at my face, with golden-brown eyes that bore into me. They are even more penetrating than his brother’s.

  “Anyway, Charles-François,” says Conti in haste, “we have established friendly relations with the Tsarina. For the first time in twelve years.”

  Broglie turns from me with reluctance. “I hear you used the libertine Lord Douglas to escort this governess.”

  “Yes – and now he’s disappeared. Most upsetting.” Conti gives a puzzled twitch.

  Applause like a flurry of rain on rooftops floats in from the adjacent apartments; the concert is ending. Sounds of chairs scraping on the parquet floor follow as surely as the overflow running down gutters.

  “Strange fellow, that Scotchman.” The Comte again lowers his voice. “Did you gather anything about his time in Poland?”

  “From the report I have, he was quite… useless.” Conti leans forward once more. “As in Russia, our progress was entirely attributable to the governess’s initiative. Why, what did you hear?”

  “Well, you realise I’ve been home from Warsaw for a few months. Louis wanted to give me some clear and rapid instructions. However, he took many weeks to formulate them and most of them are contradictory.” Broglie gives a world-weary smile. “I’m redrafting them for his approval now. But my contacts tell me your Douglas made an enemy of Stanislaus Poniatowski in his brief time there. And, with King Augustus getting on, young Stanislaus may soon be a most important man.”

  Conti’s eyes light up on the instant: “You believe he can engineer the Election?”

  “My dear Prince, I was forgetting you have designs in that area. Let me tell you this. Poniatowski is well-connected, but he is impossibly naïve. Why, my friends even say he’s still a virgin.” Broglie roars with laughter at such inexperience. “In this day and age – I as
k you.”

  No wonder the young Stanislaus was so importunate. Of course, my own chastity means I now can sympathise. From a distance.

  “So you think I still have hope?” Conti’s quick glance betrays his eagerness.

  “Of course, dear sir. A Prince of the Blood is always welcome everywhere.”

  “I have great plans for the kingdom…”

  Conti’s spoken dreams are of necessity curtailed. There is a great commotion at the doors from the Hall of Mirrors, before Lebel flings them open wide. Louis strolls in, brandishing the agreement – my agreement. He halts, beams at the throng of courtiers, and takes up a heroic stance under the fine picture of his younger self magnanimously giving peace to Europe. He is the very image, at least, of a king.

  “A triumph! Russia will join our alliance. I’d like to shove this under those stupid Foreign Ministry noses.”

  Conti gives a quiet cough, and indicates the stooping Rouillé.

  “Begging your pardon, Monsieur de Rouillé, naturally.” The King nods at the hapless Minister, who rocks on the balls of his feet, uncomfortably.

  “I suggest we delay our celebrations until the treaty’s signed,” says Conti. “Formality is necessary. We must first choose an envoy for St Petersburg.”

  Everyone mutters consent, each possible candidate trying to avoid the King’s eye. Nervous courtiers shuffle around in an attempt to stand behind their peers. All no doubt have in mind the fate of recent French ambassadors there. While they are fidgeting, the doors from the Hall of Mirrors open once more: La Pompadour comes in with Stainville, a rustling glide followed by a turkeycock strut. Several knowing smirks flicker on envious faces.

  Aflame with pride at his appropriation of my success, Louis walks toward his official mistress. “My dear, we were just discussing who should go to Russia.”

  “The objective being…?” The Marquise’s parasol whirls round and round, its effect a Roman candle concealing a pointed weapon.

  “Lay some solid foundations, you know,” flannels the King. “Try to find common ground.”

  “Won’t this upset my friend, Frederick of Prussia?” La Pompadour says, teasing – she knows he’s not one of her admirers. Or indeed any female’s, come to that.

  Louis’s black eyes narrow at the name. “Does he have to know?”

  “He soon will. We need someone of great tact, Your Majesty,” says the Marquise.

  “Precisely.” The King frowns.

  “That rules out most of your Court.” There’s a collective exhalation of relief, mingled with some expressions of indignation. La Pompadour’s gaze sweeps the Hall. She focuses on me, her eyebrows arching in graceful curves as if in mild recognition. “You there, young man, do I not know you?”

  “It is unlikely, Marquise.” I step forward and bow low before her. “I am Charles, the Chevalier d’Éon de Beaumont.”

  “The Chevalier d’Éon de Beaumont.” She luxuriates in the name, lingers on every syllable. “Very good, sir – and what is your profession?”

  “A writer, an administrator…” I cannot stop now I have started. Something impels me to say what I should not, a type of giddiness makes me foolish. “I suppose I can also turn my hand to diplomacy, if required.” I pull at my shirt cuffs in modesty.

  La Pompadour smiles, angles her head, employing all her wondrous female arts to show she is intrigued. “So where do you perform these various accomplishments?”

  “I know no boundaries,” I reply.

  “One for the future, certainly,” she says.

  Again, I bow to her. “Thank you, Madame.”

  The future is soon upon me. La Pompadour spins back to confront Louis, waving an exquisitely bejewelled hand in my direction. “Well, what about this prodigy?”

  “An excellent idea.” Stainville is most enthusiastic in supporting her, of course. “There seem few other contenders.”

  Conti tries to stem the swelling flood. “In principle, I might concur. However…”

  I interrupt him. “I’ve already visited Russia, Your Majesty. A while ago…” I realise my admission carries grave risks. Yet, if I don’t concede some part of the truth, I see this line can lead to untold dangers.

  “Have you now?” La Pompadour regards me with a show of great surprise.

  “What splendid preparation,” says Stainville.

  “You’ll know just what to expect,” the Marquise agrees.

  I’m searching all the faces that surround me for any sign of help. There’s none. “I believe my previous visit might in fact complicate matters…”

  “Why? You seem to have got out alive. Not like our usual envoys to St Petersburg.” Stainville laughs with heartless candour. “What’s the trouble?”

  “I…” In despair, I look at my mentor. Conti, lost in these rising waters, can only register impotent sympathy. “It’s because…”

  La Pompadour raises a beringed forefinger. “What are you trying to tell us, Chevalier?”

  I breathe in, very slowly, as I summon my courage.

  “They know me as a woman.”

  There is silence now among the courtiers, as though all are witnessing a fatality and fearful they might catch the blame. Louis is speechless at my folly, staring from mistress to favourite, from one dumb courtier to another in bewilderment. After a moment, La Pompadour snaps shut her parasol and approaches me with four short steps, heels clicking with an ominous echo. She stops in front of me and, green eyes aglitter, studies me again. “As do many of us, I find.”

  I feel my cheeks are burning. “It might cause me a little inconvenience.”

  “Why, did you meddle out there?” She sways back in mock incredulity.

  “No, Marquise. I have too much respect.”

  “Too much respect?” The Marquise laughs, like coins of silver tinkling on the scales. “I should think someone who’d be shunned by all society in France would hardly know the meaning of the word.”

  “Society does not agree with you, Madame.” Charlotte moves forward to confront her. “The Chevalier is always welcome at my salon.”

  “If that is your idea of society,” scoffs La Pompadour. “A ragbag of outcasts and sycophants.”

  “People come to my salon because they want to,” says Charlotte, her fingers scrunching her delicate fan to fragments. “They go to your ballets and plays because they have to.”

  The Marquise is glacial. “Do not imagine for a second, my dear Comtesse, that you will ever be put under such obligation again.”

  “I think, my dear, we have discussed the matter long enough.” Conti tells Charlotte with a restraining arm, who looks for all the money on the Bourse as though she’ll fly at the Marquise. Pieces of broken fan flutter to the floor.

  La Pompadour’s face relaxes from its momentary alarm. “That’s settled, then.” She turns back to Louis, twirling her parasol in victory.

  The King looks in despair to Conti for a way out. “Is it?”

  “Well, the Chevalier d’Éon, however talented, is a little young to carry out this intricate task,” says the Prince.

  “I never said he had to go alone,” trumps the Marquise. “One of the old guard can accompany him.”

  “Nevertheless, the outcome might be harmful to French interests,” says Conti. “This is a sensitive time.”

  “Nonsense. France needs an envoy who knows Russia and this young –,” here the Marquise pauses with a hint of a sneer, before she concludes, “– person fits the bill most admirably.”

  Conti’s shrinking an inch or so, submerging under the waves of her onslaught. “I still believe him inexperienced. Where will we find a guide?”

  The King throws a last glance at La Pompadour, who sighs at such prevarication. He puts up his hands in weary acceptance. “My Foreign Minister can draft a list of statesmen to act as his ambassador. Monsieur de Rouillé?”

  “Yes, Sire?”

  “See who might be free to visit Russia, will you? There’s no need to stress the hazards to them.”


  Stainville steps forward. “That won’t be necessary, Your Majesty.”

  “We’ve one outstanding candidate,” Pompadour confirms.

  Rouillé raises his eyes towards the heavenly paintings in the Hall – he’s grown used to his post being honorific. The King, defeated, forces the wan smile of the lazy and condemned. Conti shrugs, resigned to my fate. Charlotte looks on me in pity. Back to Petersburg, with an old fool to hamper me; I feel that my doom is sealed. I lick my lips – they have gone dry.

  * * *

  The wintry late afternoon sun is half hidden by cloud, a feeble, unpolished disc in a blank sky. A shout wakens the dozing stable boy, there is a vast creaking as frozen wood swings wide open, and the Comte de Guerchy rides through his gates at Nangis. Out of the kitchens scampers Monin to take the stallion’s reins, just as the General leaps down, alighting with military ease. His skin is red and raw from the wind; he blows on his hands, stamps his feet twice and hurries towards the house. From within comes a sound of clattering heels. Still patting at the hair about her ears, Lydia meets him at the doors of the château, her face pinched, brown eyes darting with suspicion. She holds out her thin arms to embrace him.

  “Not now, woman. Can’t you see I’m bloody cold?”

  “Welcome home, Claude.”

  “A pleasure, as always.” He brushes her aside, and enters the house.

  Her smile freezes on her blue-veined face. “Where have you been, my dear?”

  “Never you mind.” He strides through the hallway, shouting so his words rebound from walls to hector her. “I just want to know what you’ve done in my absence.”

  “Why, nothing very much. You can’t expect me to wait. Wait at your beck and call. While you amuse yourself – wherever you’ve been gallivanting. My mother needs frequent visits. As you well know. One or two trips to town. In short, the usual thing…” She shuts the door and hurries after him with quick little steps.

  “You surprise me. I’ve heard you’ve hardly set foot in the place.” He charges into the library, dust rising from the books in petulant surprise at a visitor.