The Chevalier

  She follows him, eyes watering from the further drop in temperature. “It’s a lie! Whatever you’ve been told.”

  “I don’t think so.” He slams the door behind her. The dust is again taken unawares, and moodily filters upward. “She always tells me the truth.”

  “Who’s this?”

  He shows her to a chair more prized by him than all the books around it. “Madame Theneuille. Been here all the time – unlike you, I gather.”

  “But I…” She slumps down, the broad leather seat squeaking in protest.

  “Didn’t pay her enough, I’d say. So I know everything. Well, almost everything. Since your assignations were in Paris and elsewhere, I’m not precisely sure of your lover’s name. But it doesn’t matter – you won’t be seeing any more of him where you’re going.”

  Her sharp nose wrinkles. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve had a word with the people at the Sacred Heart outside Dijon. I’m suggesting you take a little trip there for your health.”

  “Nonsense. I’m perfectly well. Never felt better.” She shifts her weight onto her toes in an attempt to rise but, with a firm hand, he pushes her back into the chair.

  “I think not, Lydia. I’d say you’re not well at all.”

  * * *

  My heart is sick, but I can delay no longer. After leaving Versailles, I take a carriage back to the Pont Royal in Paris, where I procure a horse with the last funds from Monsieur de Savigny’s purse and ride out to Senlis. This time some lights in the house on the church square are twinkling. I am buoyed by these signs of life: Marie must be in residence. Yet still I’m nervous, full of trepidation

  With an encouraging smile, Violette shows me into a small, elegant room on the first floor, tastefully decorated in the Regency style so popular with our parents. Standing by the south-facing windows, Marie turns slowly to greet me. As she blinks her eyes to accustom them to the poor light, I catch my reflection in a mirror. I do not have that freshness I once used to have. My time as a woman has aged me. She, too, appears strained, the first taut lines of worry showing on her face. Even when Violette departs, we do no more than stray a little in each other’s direction, as though we are planets exerting anti-magnetic forces that prevent affinity.

  “You’ve been gone almost a week,” she says, and pours her tiredness upon me.

  “I tried to come before, but was delayed at Court. Since then, I fear, I’ve had further state business.”

  “You could have sent a note.”

  “It wasn’t that simple.” I scrape the toe of my right boot against my heel, staring at the carpet in embarrassment. “The King is quite – demanding.”

  “Well. Now you’re here.” She moves towards me as if through solid air, and at last takes me in her arms. We’re both stiff, awkward, our gravitational forces still in counterpoint.

  I want so much to feel inspired, but I cannot. I manage to respond to her overture and kiss her, but it is the merest brush of the lips. “I can’t stay long.”

  “Surely your mission’s accomplished?”

  “Yes. However…”

  “Tell me.” She looks me full in the eye, burrowing into my very soul.

  “I must return to Russia.”

  “But that’s madness!”

  “I know.”

  “Why were you chosen?” She steps away from me.

  I don’t mention my own unfortunate boast. “They decided I was the best candidate.”

  “Couldn’t the Prince de Conti have protected you?

  “He tried. La Pompadour and Stainville outmanoeuvred us.”

  “And the King approves of this?”

  “He had little choice.”

  Marie shakes her head, glances out of the window at the sound of a dog barking, sees the darkening skies and clicks her tongue. “Still, that’s far away.” She steps forward once more – her bold actions a contrast to my inertia, an attempt to overcome the distance between us – and strokes my cheek. Her cool fingers soothe my spirit.

  “Maybe so, but the time is very short.”

  “Please explain.”

  I hesitate, trying to think of a way to break the news in a merciful manner, but it is no use – I must be candid. “We only have tonight.”

  Such honesty has an instant, cruel effect: Marie’s smile fades, her face crumples in despair. “What on earth do you mean?”

  “I have to go to the Foreign Ministry tomorrow.” I’m muttering, even more tongue-tied than before. Yet what else can I say? When I am beguiling everyone, she must be the one I never play false. “Rouillé’s under strict orders to find the best advisers for me, while Pompadour has given me a sort of senior ambassador. I must be briefed.”

  “And you can’t see me after that?”

  “It’s a condition of the assignment that I stay on hand.”

  She steps back from me: my frail gravity is failing. “Now I know how much you care.”

  “I’m doing it because I love you!”

  “Such love – a love that just keeps us apart.”

  “We’ll be together soon, I swear.”

  Now she tosses her head in anger, snorts in a manner not unlike the Grand Duchess Catherine, and turns away. There’s a pause: I sense that she’s been building up to this.

  “General Guerchy talked to me.” The rear view of her long blond silken tresses is most eloquent.

  “So?”

  “You know him as Lord Douglas.” She swivels to face me once more.

  “I see.” This continues to worsen. I need to cover my mounting sense of dread. “Such a dreadful actor!”

  “You mean he’s a very bad liar.”

  “Partly, yes.”

  She gives a momentary smile. “I’m also his ward.”

  “You told me. It doesn’t change my opinion of him.” However, it suggests to me some enemies are closer even than I feared to discovering the Secret. “You always said I should be wary of his influence. I thank God I was able to keep my distance.”

  She sits upon an upright chair and gestures me to do the same. “He has many good tales to tell about your trip to Russia.”

  “Complete fabrications, I should think.”

  “Then you didn’t spend most of your time in the Empress’s bed?” Her dark blue eyes throw an accusing glance.

  This is intolerable. “What does he know – he wasn’t even in St Petersburg!”

  “You don’t deny it, then?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “You can put your hand on your heart?”

  “Certainly.” My right hand clutches at my left shoulder blade.

  “And swear on your father’s bones?”

  “Yes. Of course.” Once more I hesitate. What was I saying to myself about the truth? I study a painting of the black-armoured Great Condé, surely a copy. He is counselling frankness, it appears, always an easier thing to do from the century before. “Well… that is to say, no. At least – it meant nothing. There was no…union. I was tending to her. It was just duty.”

  “Just duty…” She mimics me and nods with cold deliberation.

  “That’s right.” I feel her slipping away. “Duty.”

  She rises and heads for the door. “And after all this… duty… now you’ve no time for me. Violette!”

  “I told you. I’m learning diplomacy.” I leap up to forestall her.

  “Every day and night?”

  I nod in helpless sorrow. “Those are my orders.”

  Marie steps away from me once more. I reach out to her, but she evades me. We are now in different orbits. For all the silver in the Indies, she can’t bear to touch me. “I hold little hope for you as an ambassador, Charles. You’ve failed your first lesson.”

  Violette arrives to usher me back into the chill of the evening. Her air of disillusion echoes that of her mistress: it puts the final seal on my rejection.

  * * *

  The weather at last is on the turn. It is a fresh spring day, and the hunt rides west from Ver
sailles. An early shower of rain has made the going heavy. The field soon becomes stretched, spread out from wood to wood as those in the vanguard pursue the scents of two stags, sighted yesterday evening. Only the best riders can match the pace; soon this leading group is itself reduced to two. King Louis, proud and erect on his champion stallion, is enjoying the ride. The other is striving hard to keep up, pushing his mare to its limit. Sweat pouring down from his forehead, he wipes his brow with one hand and looks to his rear: they have left all the other horses far behind, well out of sight. The yapping of the hounds beneath their hooves persists, urging them on towards their prey.

  As they crest a rise, the royal stallion’s speed begins to slow, and the mare draws level. Satisfied they’re alone, César Gabriel raises his hat to the King. “A good day’s sport, Your Majesty.”

  “Capital, capital. Although I must say I’d prefer to be in at a kill. Wretched stags could be more obliging. No sign of either of them. And who are you, may I ask?”

  “César Gabriel de Choiseul, at your service.”

  “Don’t tell me. Your cousin is the chap who’s paying court to the Marquise. If you’ve come to tell me a story about them, I really don’t want to know. Because I’m aware of it all already, d’you see?” He conducts his mount with some ease over a hawthorn hedge.

  César Gabriel negotiates it with less finesse, but manages to remain abreast. “I would not presume, Sire.”

  “Good, good. As long as we agree on that. So what exactly do you want?”

  “I wonder if I might have a word on another matter before the laggards catch us up.”

  “Well, be brief now. And don’t ask me to do anything. I won’t have it. I am allowed a little relaxation, you know.” His mouth curves down peevishly.

  “Of course, Sire. I merely want to draw your attention to irregularities in the Parlement of Dijon.”

  “Dijon, eh? Rather difficult for me to get involved. Could you not report your suspicions to the President?”

  César Gabriel follows the King through a narrow high gate, and waits until he catches up again. “It is the President who is acting illegally.”

  The hounds are yelping away on the other side of the field, bounding up a grassy slope towards a hilltop spinney.

  “Indeed. In what way?”

  “Respecting property transactions, Sire.” A flock of starlings takes off in some disarray while the ravening hounds assault the copse. As the riders look up, the birds marshal themselves into closer formation and fly away into the clear sky.

  “Nothing I can do, as I say. But who is this President?”

  “The Comte de Guerchy.”

  * * *

  Guerchy allows himself the luxury of a carriage drawn by horses enragés on the ride west from Paris to Bellevue. Soon Collin, liveried in his purple, white and gold, is showing the General into the presence of La Pompadour and Stainville, ranged over a tricky game of patience on a library table. Stainville rises to greet him, although the Marquise, worrying about a slight chip in her fingernail, has other concerns.

  “Thank you for answering our call. I’ll come straight to the point, General,” says Stainville. “This Chevalier d’Éon de Beaumont, if that’s who he really turns out to be, is going to return to St Petersburg.”

  Guerchy, still in the process of sitting down uninvited, gives a convulsive start. “Ordered by the King?”

  “With a little encouragement from interested parties,” breathes the Marquise.

  “As what? A sort of… ambassador?” Guerchy finds it difficult to spit out the words.

  “Most surely,” she confirms. “And as a man.”

  “Hah!” After this brief explosion, Guerchy considers the news. “There you go. What did I tell you about this fickle renegade?”

  “We remember the conversation well,” she says.

  “And my ward was quite persuasive, albeit inadvertently.” He rubs the bridge of his nose.

  La Pompadour smiles. “So we were led to understand.”

  “Yet this plan is madness!” Guerchy throws up his arms in an amateurish attempt to play an inmate of the Bicêtre asylum. “I hardly know what to believe, Marquise.”

  “Believe what you like,” she says.

  “It suits us now to accept him as a man,” adds Stainville.

  The Marquise flutters those sweet lashes. “And you, Monsieur le Comte?”

  “I thought I knew,” says Guerchy.

  “All very interesting, but by the way,” she concludes, her fan rapping the table. “He’s going to need an old hand to accompany him. A Minister Plenipotentiary.”

  The ticking of the clock meshes with the tapping of her fan as the enormity of her scheme starts to dawn on Guerchy. “You don’t mean…” he stumbles.

  “We certainly do.” She puts down the fan and turns the force of her grey eyes upon the handsome soldier. “The versatile Lord Douglas is ideal.”

  Guerchy’s deep voice goes up an octave. “Look, this is ridiculous!”

  “Is it really?” She pauses, adopts a milder tone. “Do you think much about the future?”

  “The war is getting ever closer,” Stainville says.

  “But I’ve performed what you asked,” pleads Guerchy.

  “Within limits, General. Or shall I say Field Marshal?” La Pompadour’s eyes now sparkle a bright coquettish green. “However, we find that you did not entirely ascertain the strength of the enemy, let alone vanquish him – or her. The campaign still remains unfinished.”

  There’s a long pause for a reply, the Marquise’s gaze constant on her prey throughout. Guerchy’s ambition wrestles with his reason, and causes it to submit. “I don’t really have a choice, I suppose?”

  “We think it would be in your interests,” says Stainville. “Promotion – and riches too.”

  “You’ll need a Lady Douglas,” coos La Pompadour.

  Stainville picks at specks of dirt upon the gold braid of his cuffs. “How is the Comtesse de Guerchy?”

  “Recovering, thank you. She will benefit, I trust, from the calm life at the convent…” The General’s voice drifts off into the ether as he considers the possibilities.

  The Marquise extends her hand towards Guerchy, palm downward. “I hope she will be well enough to accompany you.”

  Guerchy allows himself the merest ghost of a smile as he rises and bends forward to apply his lips to those delectable fingers.

  * * *

  A shoal of trout rises to snap at insects on the water, creating a series of splashes. I pause while walking across the bridge over the Oise to look down, falling behind Conti and Charlotte. In front of us, the Château de l’Isle-Adam rises sheer out of the river, a castle in a Perrault fairytale. The collective mood is one of resignation; it’s certainly the way I feel. Sensing my despair, Charlotte waits, takes my hand in hers and squeezes, smiling at me with her frank eyes and parted lips.

  “Be resolute,” she says.

  “I know. It’s not all lost,” I say, without too much conviction.

  The Prince throws a little branch into the swelling river. “What can those Russians do? How can they prove it either way?”

  I recall only too well. “My true sex is a legal nicety that will not concern them. They can torture me for years and lock me up forever.”

  “They can strip you, but they’ll only find you’re a man,” soothes Charlotte. “Won’t they?”

  “Well, yes,” I have to admit. “But they’ll just say I was pretending before. And what can I do?”

  “Deny it,” she says. “Besides, you’ll have a protector, a senior envoy.”

  “And you remember who’s providing him?” I walk on with leaden feet.

  Conti puts his arm around my shoulder and tries to scorn my fears. “The Marquise won’t foist the so-called Lord Douglas on you again. She and Stainville are far too subtle.”

  “Monsieur le Prince, you may know more than me about diplomacy, but you have something to learn of politics,” I say. “I’m c
onvinced she’ll do just that.”

  Chapter Twenty One

  The Trap

  The night is bright and clear, the last winter winds blowing the early springtime blossom away through the city, down to the Seine. From high in the Hôtel de Gesvres, La Pompadour and Stainville are sharing a bottle of fine sweet Sauternes as they watch the quay on the far bank of the river. He sips, puts down his goblet and turns to bask in the expanse of skin shown by her low-cut gold dress.

  “We have been here before, I think, Marquise.” He smiles a little. “Jeanne.”

  “Things were all so much more opaque last year. Did you enjoy the ballet?”

  “Exquisite – your taste, as ever, is impeccable.” He takes a pinch of snuff. “You had not flushed Conti into the open at that time.”

  “I knew he had plans afoot. However, I admit I didn’t know their nature.” She declines his snuffbox, and trains her jewelled spyglass on the northern tip of the Île de la Cité, where a barge lies at rest. “There were one or two minor infelicities tonight – but I am sure we can put them right with a last rehearsal. I want perfection from the dancers before the King comes to see them.” She takes a sweetmeat from the tray beside her on the table.

  “Quite. And you didn’t have any word nine months ago on the little agent, of course.”

  “The governess? No, that was all somewhat of a surprise.” She finishes chewing and gives a little laugh, laced with cynicism. “I’ll make him pay for it, though. Louis is already bending to my will.”

  “Do you think Conti’s watching?” He stokes the already blazing fire.

  “Who cares? He knows he is, and will be, outmanoeuvred.”

  Sweating from the influx of snuff and proximity to the heat, his face even more rubicund than usual, he puts down the tongs. “You are happy to take on a Prince of the Blood?”

  “Ecstatic. As blissful as I am, my dearest, to watch this last departure of his creature. How much more fun it is when one already knows the outcome!”

  Stainville removes his silver jacket. “It is delightful, granted, but I still enjoy the unpredictability of events.” His white shirt shows wet stains under his arms.