The Chevalier

by The Chevalier (retail) (epub)

  “You are so cavalier about such things, Étienne.” She focuses her glittering spyglass on the back of the barge. “Yet I think your boldness comes from not having the responsibility for them.”

  “How can a humble Ambassador be held to account when he’s not in his designated country?” He folds back the frills on his wide cuffs. “Rome’s so far away.”

  “Precisely. Now what if that Ambassador were to achieve his dreams?”

  He sidles up behind her. “I am fulfilling all my dreams with you, Jeanne.” He strokes her bare shoulder.

  She wriggles at the slight clamminess of his touch. “Not quite what I meant, my dear Étienne.” But she eases herself round to kiss his cheek just the same.

  * * *

  On the far bank of the river, the streets leading to the quay are empty. The state of the Hôtel de Conti has not improved in recent months. Unlocking the door, the Prince pushes it half-open, bringing down a shower of dust. Charlotte hangs back, before squeezing sideways through the narrow gap to avoid scraping against the peeling paintwork.

  “Hurry, they will be coming soon,” hisses the Prince, as they pass through the hallway.

  Picking her path to the staircase through woodshavings and other detritus, she mutters at his back: “I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.”

  “No one does, Charlotte. Why do you think I sold the place?”

  She sighs, and briefly smiles. “I know, I know.” She pokes her toes to find a solid step on which to place her weight. “What if people were to find out we’re here?”

  His light feet take the stairs two at a time. “Who’s to prevent me having a nostalgic rummage through my old rooms? They’ve still done nothing with them.”

  “Do you remember how you used to rummage me?” Her gloved fingers glide along the banister as she climbs after him.

  He reaches the upper hallway and turns to offer her his hand. “Oh, come now. You were always saying how little you liked my attentions.”

  “I merely said they were a trifle overdone. I like the lack of your attentions even less.” She lets him usher her towards the bedroom on the river front. “What is happening to you?”

  “My dear Charlotte, I’m on edge. Can’t you see that all my hopes rest on this voyage that’s about to start? I’ve invested a great deal in this Chevalier.” The bedroom door is rotting and opens with no difficulty.

  “Well, I do understand, but surely you should maintain some perspective, a breadth of vision, as it were. It’s very cold in here.”

  He grunts in half-accord. “What d’you expect? The place has been deserted for ages. Now I must concentrate.” He pulls at the heavy damask curtain, and yet more dust descends. A shaft of moonlight falls across the room as the drapes part. His right hand flaps in her direction, fingers demanding some action.

  At length she comprehends his meaning, and passes him the spyglass. “So what is there so vital you must see?”

  “Why, the character of this Minister Plenipotentiary, of course. I may have been outsmarted for the moment, but the game is not yet up.” He rubs at the window where steam from their hot breath is fast accumulating.

  “What difference could it make, Louis-François?”

  “Everything! Do you not want to be a Queen? Remember this. You could be Queen of Poland if our little conjuror brings this trick to a conclusion.” His spyglass trains its focus on the island.

  “Excuse me! Can I see your ring upon my finger?” She pretends to examine her hands and blows some stray flakes from her nails. “If we’re not married here, what change should Poland bring?”

  He lowers the spyglass and spins about to face her. “It makes all the difference in the world. In France, no one expects us to marry: divorce is unthinkable for you, and society would consider it the height of folly. To gain the crown of Poland it would be essential.”

  “If I had the inclination, my Prince, I might go. But I’d rather be your friend in Île-de-France or Burgundy than Queen of all the Poles.”

  “And what if there’s no choice?”

  “I see I’m secondary to your ambition.” She smoothes back the creased coverlet and settles down to sit upon the bed.

  “Nothing of the kind.” He gives her a quick smile of consolation before he turns his gaze to watch the riverside. “Now, no more disturbance, please – there’s activity on the Pont Neuf.”

  * * *

  On the bridge I dismount from my hired barouche and ask the driver to take my bags down the well-worn stairs onto the Île de la Cité. The air is unseasonably cold, with a harsh east wind slashing up the river like sleigh rails through wet snow. It is a clear night, however, and I find the vessel easy to spot with its lamp burning low astern. It is, I’m sure, one I remember well. The driver puts my cases near the barge – I pay him with just the right show of careful extravagance, not too little, not too much, in order to discourage any idle talk in the taverns. He leaves: I wait upon the island bank. I will not embark alone. Amid the squeaks of scurrying rats, I try to appear nonchalant.

  This leaves me with a dilemma. Remaining static invites the wind to play around my thinly dressed body (why did I not wear my long coat?), yet I do not wish to attract unwanted scrutiny by too much movement. I content myself with occasional judicious kicks to discourage the vermin from attacking my bundles of papers and books. Fifteen long, freezing minutes pass before a coach rolls up. When it does so, tension grips me at once. The coat of arms has a certain familiarity.

  A hand snakes out to open the door. The outline of a man appears. One large boot after another places itself upon the step, where their owner halts, the coach swaying dangerously behind him. The tall figure looks up. At last the face of my Minister Plenipotentiary becomes visible beneath the lamplight. I feel a chill sink down through all my bones. A recurring nightmare is about to unfold. My fears were justified: Lord Douglas.

  Or General Guerchy, as I now know him to be.

  He bounds from the step and advances upon me. “The little lectrice, is it not? To meet again so soon is a rare delight.” His sculpted sneer in all its preening self-confidence fills me with loathing.

  “I think you are mistaken, sir. We are not acquainted.”

  “Don’t give me any of that nonsense. I’ve been told all about you. Be sure I know everything, so you can drop your pretence.”

  Obstinacy can sometimes be a virtue. I will not give him the satisfaction he craves. “To whom do I have the honour of addressing myself?”

  “The Comte de Guerchy at your service, sir. For the purposes of our mission, you will please refer to me as Lord Douglas. As, indeed, you well know from before.”

  “Good evening, Lord Douglas.” I bow to him with a flourish he does not deserve. “Charles, the Chevalier d’Éon de Beaumont.” Somehow I think the run of the cards is changing. The Fates are dealing me an unkind hand. My aces all are queens, and his queens, aces.

  “Now, you’ve yet to meet my wife, I gather? Lady Douglas?” His arm helps a thin but wonderfully proportioned form descend from the coach. As she looks to her footing, her black hooded cloak keeps her pale face in shadow. Upon the cobblestones she pauses, throws back her hood and looks up, the moonlight revealing her lustrous beauty. My earlier shock is nothing compared to this. I freeze and choke as the air from my lungs is sucked into my throat. God is testing me with nightmare upon nightmare for my great presumption. It is Marie.

  “Or perhaps,” he laughs, and, proceeding with cruel emphasis, repeats the word: “perhaps now it is I who am mistaken.”

  Marie and I stare at each other across the five long yards of moonlit quay. We say nothing. She is, I believe, speechless with humiliation at this charade: I am stunned into submission, swallowing over and again in an attempt to regain the ability to breathe freely. I am presented with my greatest hope at one and the same time as my worst fear. For the next months, I am to have the daily access to her that may make her love me. However, I know that the revelations which may ensue might ca
use her to think me despicable. There’s no doubting Guerchy’s predisposition: he will fill her with ceaseless venom at every turn, in an attempt to destroy my character.

  Now the goblin-like servant, Monin, begins loading their luggage onto the deck, leaping about the high stacks like a troll on the mountainside. The limping master of the barge I also recognise. I wait until I’ve handed my own bags to him before I try to break the spell. I walk up to Marie upon the quay.

  “Marie,” I whisper. Nothing. “Madame de Courcelles.” No answer. “Lady Douglas.”

  Still she cannot speak. She stares at me, her face immobile in complete dejection.

  “Come on, you two,” says Guerchy as he beckons us towards the barge. “Let’s go on board. I’ve heard all there is to tell. I can’t begin to express how droll it is for me to be the cause of your touching reunion.”

  Yet he knows full well it is not only a reunion for the two of us. We are a revived triumvirate: I am meeting Guerchy and Marie together for the first time since that evening at the Opéra. Now even Guerchy falls quiet in contemplation as he dredges his memories. It gives me a long while to meditate on what I’ve done, what I must do, and whether the roll of my companions has ruined all possibility of success. I cannot believe it has improved my prospects. We move slowly to the gangplank, silent ghosts in embarkation on a spectral ship.

  The captain prepares to cast off, his disability no obstacle to our smooth departure. As the barge turns about, a mordant smell of rotting fish is blown back upon the wind. Marie and I take up our positions, sitting as far apart as possible on opposite sides of the deck. With studied calm, she is trying to ignore me, and I think it best for the moment to follow her lead. We two may be downcast, but Guerchy is the most light-hearted I have ever seen him. Curse him.

  “This is going to be such fun.” He rubs his massive hands.

  I give him no response, nor does he get one from Marie. He looks out upon the banks of the Seine, humming an incongruous sea shanty and nodding his head in time. The barge drifts past the Bastille and heads for the city walls.

  “What could be nicer? A pleasant voyage upriver, time to appreciate the beauties of the rural scenes,” he says. “There’ll be plenty of daylight for all the seeing of the sights, don’t worry.” He sits halfway between us on a trunk that creaks beneath him.

  We continue to disregard him, locked in our separate worlds.

  “Is it always like this with young lovers? I don’t think so. Boy meets girl, boy loves girl – happiness. But girl meets girl, girl loves girl, one girl becomes boy, boy plays fast and loose abroad in disguise, other girl gets mad. That’s a new story: should be in one of your books. You’re keen on the truth, aren’t you?” He smirks over at me and I look down, feeling my cheeks blaze with mortification.

  Before I can restore my composure, Marie finds her voice. “What about boy meets girl, boy falls in love with girl, boy is hurt and humiliated when he finds out girl is really boy? That story has a nice twist, too.”

  Guerchy’s face warps with sudden rage. “It’s a lie! How dare you speak in such a way!” His left leg jerks straight out in front of him, as though he wants to stand but has forgotten how.

  “I must have struck home,” she says. “I’ve never seen my husband so annoyed.”

  Now I decide to raise my head again and look at my fellow-voyagers. “Isn’t it time we all stopped?”

  “You can be quiet. You’re the cause of all this,” snaps Marie.

  “You blame me?” I cannot deny I feel wounded.

  “Of course,” she says. “This endless search for freedom – it’s unnatural.”

  Our argument is getting more and more heated: I can no longer feel the cold night air. Conversely, as we quarrel, Guerchy resumes control of his temper. Grinning at each of us in turn, as if we both were playing the game of shuttlecock and battledore, he bobs his head with gleeful joie de vivre.

  “You don’t mean that,” I plead with her.

  “I surely do. You’re far too free with everyone,” she says.

  “So you take the word of this consummate liar over mine?” I point at her supposed spouse.

  Guerchy jumps up, showing that he’s regaining feeling in his legs. “Liar, you reckon? I should call you out for that. Can you deny what you’ve done?”

  “My actions are those of a free individual.” I rise to face him, though he towers above me. “You’ve no conception of the idea of freedom. It means freedom to think, to act, to be. It’s for the soul, not just the body.”

  “How very convenient that must be for you.” He articulates his scorn with care.

  “In an ordered society, it’s most inconvenient,” I say. “But just because it’s hard to achieve doesn’t stop me from trying.”

  “Like your change of sex,” he gibes. “What are you really – a woman, a man, a man posing as a woman or a woman pretending to be a man?”

  “I’m a human being,” I say.

  “Sophistry,” he says. “I’ve got a lot of prestige riding on this, you know.”

  “I’ve got more than that.” I cast a hopeful glance at Marie.

  She turns away. “Don’t look at me. It’s too late for you now.”

  Guerchy sniffs at her display of scruple. “Anyway, it’s hardly for you to judge. A certain party tells me you were most active with the King when your little creature here was – how shall we describe it? – busy, engaged on this grand Russian tour.” He sits back down, glowing with self-regard.

  “What’s that?” I say.

  “Of all the calumnies!” She seems on the point of tears.

  “I’ve got details. The lodge at dusk, the roaring fire…” He drums his fingers on the polished wooden trunk.

  “No, don’t.” She slumps forward, elbows on her knees.

  “That restless Bourbon lust,” he carries on, implacable. “What else were you to do?”

  I do not wish to believe it but her actions tell me it’s true. “How could you, Marie?”

  “Morality’s not so clear, is it?” Guerchy gives a nervous glance at the rising riverbank as the barge makes a sudden turn, the wooden hull straining loud against the water. We are making for a tributary, the eddies of the converging rivers causing a huge swell.

  “Where are we going? This isn’t the same way,” I say.

  He smiles, noting how I at last confess to our previous shared journey. “Didn’t I tell you? Just in case spies were following our route before, I’ve plotted an alternative. We’re going to travel up the Marne.”

  * * *

  The Marne is a most peaceful river, once the wind has dropped. The trees and bushes at the water’s edge are coming into leaf and all around is budding green. Out comes the sun, and everything takes on a bright, young glow. Even the air revives me: nature is giving out so many pleasant smells, after being wrapped up by winter for too long.

  I am stirred from a fine reverie by the dread sound of cawing birds. I dash to the front of the barge, searching for ravens, those harbingers of evil. All I can see at first are wildfowl, a gaggle of geese bickering among themselves on the sedge. Then, in the distance, I spot white egrets, brown bitterns and grey herons in the rushes on both banks, opening their beaks wide to sing for mates. The strident cawing is interspersed with deeper noises, the bass sounds of bitterns, rising to the harsh altos of the herons and egrets in this Marne choir; everything is punctuated by the gentle splashes of their frequent dives.

  “No ravens, I hope?” I say to our bargee.

  He points to the waterfowl: “They make the same sounds.”

  Thank the Lord God. I still possess my country superstitions.

  The current makes us sluggish, but our great carthorse is strong. We pass by little villages and towns to the north-east of Paris, only diverted when another barge flashes through, racing downstream with its cargo of pungent cheeses, leaving a foot-flush odour hanging on the air.

  We remain apart throughout the day, Marie at the stern in an improvised she
lter, Guerchy commanding the centre with the bargee, and myself at the prow. Our only communication is through Monin who scurries back and forth with bread and hams, and orders from the General which we studiously ignore.

  By the evening, we are docking on a sharp curve of the river at the inland port of Meaux. Its cathedral of Saint Étienne rises above the graceful houses on the waterfront in layers of Gothic splendour. As the bargee makes us fast, a scrabbling distracts me from gazing at its majesty. Guerchy is advancing upon Marie to press-gang her to an inn, anxious to reclaim her as his Lady Douglas. I wish to intervene but Monin is barring my way – Marie’s stern look shows that she needs no help from me in dealing with her pretended Lord.

  The three of them diverted, I leap ashore and ask the master of the barge if he knows the town and its attractions. This is an indulgence that Mademoiselle Lia was not able to afford; I aim to make the most of my freedom on this second voyage.

  “Yes, sir, indeed. I know every inch of this river and all the villages and towns what straddle it besides. I can even get around Paris these days.”

  “May I accompany you for the evening? I wish to leave the married couple to enjoy each other’s company.”

  He gives me a broad wink. “Be my pleasure to guide you, sir, it would.”

  “Excellent – I thank you kindly.” We set off together, my arm around his shoulder, although I notice his walking starts at a sloth’s pace and soon gets slower. “Pray, what is your name?” I take the opportunity to remove my arm.

  “They call me Yves at home, sir. But most of my friends know me as Bargeman.”

  “And which do you prefer?”

  “If I was to speak frankly, sir, now I’m with the quality, my parents would be right chuffed if I was known as Yves. Not that I’m ashamed of my profession, mind, but you can see their point. They spent several minutes thinking up that name.”

  His ironic stance does him credit. “Well, in that case, I shall call you Yves. But otherwise have you always been Bargeman?”