The Chevalier

by The Chevalier (retail) (epub)

  Catherine ghosts a smile and glances across to Bestuchev and his friends – they’re incredulous, with the exception of Williams. And Stanislaus, of course: as she catches sight of him, her face softens. Elizabeth remains expressionless, while she extends her hand. I drop on one knee, her dress a silver waterfall above me.

  “Another new envoy is always welcome. Present your credentials.” Elizabeth’s voice is hushed, but a small tremor is just discernible.

  “The Chevalier D’Éon de Beaumont, with greetings from the Most Christian King.”

  My lips brush the Empress’s kidskin. Beside me, I can smell Guerchy’s sweat seeping from his pores.

  “How kind. His Majesty’s representative seems… familiar.” Elizabeth’s eyes sparkle as she motions me to stand.

  I rise. “My sister had the good fortune to visit your city recently.”

  Her voice sinks even lower. “Ah, yes.” She beckons me close. “Did you gather from her how severe the penalties are for some crimes here? Such as, impersonating a member of the opposite sex?” Elizabeth licks her lips.

  Amid the murmurs behind me I hear the braying tones of the Black Fox backing his earlier judgement, and the bright jingle of coins passing from hand to hand.

  “She omitted to mention it.” I look at the Empress in cool enquiry.

  Elizabeth’s eyes are afire. “Death,” she whispers.

  “Mademoiselle Lia told me Your Majesty was more enlightened.”

  She shrugs, and raises her gloved hands. “Very well. Exquisite torture.”

  “I shall bear it in mind.”

  We hold each other’s gaze. Now there is silence around the Court. I am aware that Marie’s eyes are raking us with all the closeness of a weasel watching two stoats.

  “And you know what day of the week it is?” Elizabeth pulls one of the gloves from her large hand with those long fingers.

  “I believe it to be Tuesday.” Oh, dear God, no.

  Elizabeth removes the other glove and entwines them. She places her free hand on my shoulder and bends towards me: “Your sister explained to you the joys of Metamorphosis? About the pleasures of the inner circle?”

  “She was discreet, of course,” I say. “I heard nothing that could in any way be detrimental to your reputation.”

  “I should think not,” she purrs. “But…?”

  “Well, she did mention that you enjoyed the chance to organise small dances where the men dressed as women and the women came as men. She said your wonderful long legs showed to particular advantage in the uniform of a Guards officer.”

  “Most flattering of her,” smiles the Empress, standing full upright in a mannish pose. “We still hold these entertainments every week on the same day. You are free this evening?”

  I hesitate. “I cannot recall an engagement, Majesty.”

  “Then I shall expect you.” Elizabeth leans forward again, so she is almost brushing my cheek. “It will be an intimate affair.”

  My throat feels suddenly constricted. “You want me to dress as a woman?”

  “Is it so very hard?” Elizabeth smiles in condescension. “Such masquerades are popular in France, I hear.”

  “Nevertheless I shall be ashamed to appear so in front of my Minister and his wife.” I feel the Empress is ordering me to march straight to disaster.

  “Strange – I don’t recall inviting them.” Elizabeth turns her gaze upon Guerchy and Marie. “Yet perhaps it may be amusing.” She raises her voice. “Minister. Will you promise not to be shocked?”

  “At what, Your Majesty?” Guerchy’s face is stolidity itself.

  The Empress’s expression radiates pure wickedness. “If I were to request you to attend my ball, where all must come in the dress of the opposite sex…”

  Guerchy swallows, yet recognition of how he can trap me dawns on his sculpted features and he nods with brutal vigour. Still he cannot speak.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” answers Marie, catching my eye.

  I persist with vain excuses. “That’s very kind indeed. But I, we, might cause offence to your other guests.” Bestuchev is starting to make his way over to us.

  “Enough,” Elizabeth sighs, her kidskin gloves flicking my words away. “I’ll be the arbiter of their morals. You will come, and that’s that. Now tell me what Louis plans for us.”

  Guerchy clears his throat. “Your Majesty, may I state our negotiating terms?”

  “One minute, sir. Let me consider the preconditions first.” Elizabeth frowns on him and turns back to me.

  It is the moment for a strike. “Can I please have a private audience?”

  Out of the corner of my eye I notice Bestuchev shaking his head vigorously. The Empress has him in full sight, yet she smiles at me once more. “Very well. Come to my rooms tomorrow evening.”

  I nod and turn away.

  “Chancellor, you can be there, I trust?” Elizabeth is keen to twist the knife.

  Bestuchev’s face is a maelstrom of warring emotions, but at last he overcomes his rage and acquiesces. Around me, I observe pictures of discontent: Guerchy is fuming in exasperation – Marie looks pleased at his eclipse, but little flickers from the corners of her mouth show me she doubts my motives.

  Only the Empress is in control. She takes the General to one side: “My Lord Douglas, before I can deal with you in public, I must prepare the ground. My advisers, naturally, will play their part. You must also excuse me talking things over with your envoy. It will help us come to agreement later.” Elizabeth beams at him as though such unorthodoxy were the most normal practice.

  “As Your Majesty wishes.” Guerchy is now quite red in the face, his blood pressure ascending to a dangerous degree.

  It is time to disappear. “Until tonight.” I bow to the Empress, turn and withdraw, leaving the Court in tumult.

  * * *

  All afternoon, I fret about the possible outcomes of this ball of Metamorphosis. It was fortuitous that I escaped unscathed before: it is far less likely that I will do so again. However, there is another part of me that wills the evening to come upon us fast.

  For there are transcendent pleasures lying in wait. I shall be able to sample the delights of Marie dressing as a man. Moreover, I know it will be my best, perhaps my only chance, to once more wear her red dress, the scarlet dress that first so captivated me. And, what is more delicious, this thrilling scene will play out in front of Guerchy, in a place where he is helpless to intervene.

  Knocking upon their bedroom door, I call out: “Minister, a word with you.”

  After a moment the door opens. “Well, what is it?” He still sounds out of sorts.

  “Have you an idea, that is to say, anything to wear for this evening?”

  There is an immediate explosion of temper. “You know I bloody well haven’t!”

  “Of course I can always say you’re indisposed. Tired after your travels, and so on…” I flash a hollow smile. Marie emerges from behind a screen.

  “No, you don’t,” he says. “I’m not letting you swirl along to see her there without an escort.”

  “So may I make a suggestion?”

  “You can suggest what you damned well like.”

  “Why not ask the Count,” I say, “if he knows any lady who, how shall we put it, shares your proportions?”

  “Oh, very well. If I must, I must.” He stumps off past me downstairs with, to my mind, ridiculous bad grace.

  Marie has been regarding me askance during the charged exchange. A smile is playing constantly about her lips, and for the first time since we set out upon this odd adventure, I believe she recalls how she understands me at heart.

  I wait until I hear the slamming of a distant door. “This is where we came in, I think.”

  She nods. “With one vital difference.”

  “That you must play a man.”

  “Precisely,” she concurs.

  “And can you make the part your own?”

  “If you will help me. Unlike during your selfish
show at Court this afternoon.”

  “All that was designed to give us the privileged access we are now about to enjoy.”

  She thinks for a long time, doubtless evaluating how privileged we’re really going to be. “In that case, I will try.”

  “Then I am yours,” I say. “You must become me.”

  At this moment, just as we tremble on the cusp of transformation, Guerchy strides back into the room. “The Count is taking me to visit a friend of his.” Behind him, Woronzov gives the merest hint of a smile.

  “I am so pleased, my dear,” says Marie.

  The General frowns at us both. “Nothing untoward while I am gone.”

  “A simple exchange and we shall rest.”

  “We’ll be no more than a couple of hours,” says Woronzov. “And then Katya and I have promised to dine with Lisaveta.”

  This is excellent news. I have been haunted by the prospect of the lively Katya interrupting and wanting to help me to become a woman. We stand tense, motionless, and watch the two men’s backs as they depart. When we’re alone, we turn and stare into each other’s eyes for a long while.

  At last she moves and breaks the spell: “How shall we proceed?”

  I bow to her, provocative. “In this manner, as we did before.” I remove my light blue trimmed lace coat, my sky blue pantaloons, my white shirt with its pleasing folds and ornate cuffs. I stand before her in my undergarments.

  She watches me throughout, struggling to suppress the twinkle in her own eye. “Why, sir, you have stripped yourself… do you do this for me?”

  “Only the best for you and the Empress, I assure you.” A mistake: I note how Marie shivers at the mention of Elizabeth. “But she must know you’re coming dressed as me.”

  “And I suppose you, by the same token, must take on my outer skin.”

  I can almost taste my delight. “The scarlet dress?” To have my dream fulfilled without persuasion – this would be very fine.

  “Of course,” she says.

  “Yet she won’t know it’s yours…”

  “You and I will know – and that is what really matters.”

  And thus for the next joyous hour or so, she helps me once again become a woman. She clothes me in her shift and underthings, encases me in her scarlet dress, applies cosmetics to my face and puts up my fair hair. I am cast into raptures, especially as the citrus scent she wears on her body lingers about me. When I examine myself in the mirror, I find that I am once again the model of a beautiful young female. However, that is the problem: I resemble too closely the lectrice who seduced the Russian Court last year. Instructing Marie to add a little too much powder and rouge, I further exaggerate my appearance with a beauty spot.

  The hint of caricature that it suggests will have to do – and so I turn towards Marie. Giving her my frilled white shirt, that fine blue jacket and pantaloons, white stockings and buckled black shoes, I assist her in her presentation as a man. Next, I try to harden the beauty of her features, with all the arts at my disposal. I am not entirely successful: she reveals herself as a very feminine boy.

  Guerchy does not return and so, when evening falls, we join the chosen guests, twelve coaches full of tall girls and slim young swells as they converge outside the Palace; we enter, and following distant music make our way down torchlit corridors to the secluded chamber. No one says anything to me, but I feel a hundred eyes scouring my blood-red dress. Maybe, I fear, too many minds are making the association.

  The dim candlelight in the ballroom helps to offset the danger of discovery. However, it gives revellers every excuse to peer at me from close range. The hulking women and sleek men press in upon us. I hang on to Marie’s arm for protection: my fear of people in proximity returns. She leads me to an empty patch next to a wall.

  A string quartet begins playing in the corner of the room: under the watchful eye of Elizabeth, one couple dances a few steps of a minuet to set the ball underway. The Empress, keen to relive her past successes, is dressed in her uniform as a general of the Preobrajenski Guards. She makes a great effort to throw off the cares and ailments Katya says have been afflicting her, takes to the floor, and proceeds to show a most handsome and manly leg as she treads perfect time with Shuvalov. Her younger beau still makes one of the prettiest of women.

  So much, I think, for Metamorphosis. Apart from the change in my own circumstances, it feels much the same: music, dancing, intrigue, flesh. But at this point, we are disturbed by the sight of Guerchy entering in the shawl and skirts of a peasant woman. He looks around, sees us and lurches over.

  “Where have you been?” he mutters at Marie.

  “Why, my Lord, I have been here all the time. I thought you would prefer to dress yourself in private – I certainly felt that way.”

  “You little fool, Woronzov could find no one suitable. I had to bring in Monin to assist me. Luckily, he has become acquainted with a rather full-sized serving wench.”

  She examines him coolly. “Indeed, sir, the clothing fits you well.”

  “All right: let it lie, wife,” he says. “Just protect me now I’m here. That’s all I ask.”

  I fear she does not do a very thorough job, nor do I find myself able to assist her. At that moment, the Empress spies Guerchy in the peasant robes, and swaggers over, sensing the possibility of mischief.

  “Will you dance, Mademoiselle?”

  “What? I? Now? Here?” He tries to avoid the Tsarina’s mocking eye. “You must be planning to laugh at me.”

  “I can assure you I am not, my dear. Now dance with me, please. I insist upon it.”

  Elizabeth drags the protesting Guerchy onto the floor, where first she forces him to curtsey over and over again in a long piece stuffed with demeaning protocol. Next, she whirls him round in a rough jig until he is reeling from giddiness. Finally, she has him do a series of pirouettes in a dance that shows her nimbleness of foot, despite her heavy frame. In sum, the Empress extracts a performance just a shade short of degradation. At last, she releases Guerchy and he staggers off in search of bogus consolation from Marie.

  Flushed with her success, the Tsarina approaches me, a devilish smile still on her lips. “Did your sister tell you what goes on at Metamorphosis?” I offer silent thanks the company prevents her from revealing my duplicity – for now.

  “No, Your Majesty, she was most circumspect.”

  “Really?”

  “She mentioned their regularity, it’s true,” I feel an itch growing beneath the powder on my face, “but never told me of the content.”

  “You’ll be finding out for yourself, then. And I will give you a great privilege that I denied her.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Oh, God in Heaven, spare me.

  “On certain nights, I select couples to perform for my pleasure. You look so delicious in your scarlet dress, the very image of Mademoiselle d’Éon, that I cannot deny myself.”

  “Please, don’t make me, Majesty. It’s impossible. I’m grateful, of course, and sensible of the honour you do me, but I cannot allow it. My status as an emissary of France precludes me…”

  “What useless shilly-shallying! Do you think anyone outside these walls hears what goes on? If even once a guest were to let slip a word, I would know what to do with him. Or her. And as for now, you’ll do what pleases me.”

  An icy grip takes my body, and will not let go. “I am Your Majesty’s servant.”

  “Good. That’s settled. Let us nominate a partner for you.” She pretends to search hard among the guests. “What about this fine figure over here?” She points, of course, to Marie, a ravishing picture in my sky blue coat.

  “Anyone but her, please, anyone at all. She’s the wife of our Minister.”

  “I know that. Is he paying attention?” Of course, the buffoon has wandered off. Either that or Marie has sent him about his business. “I think not. He’s entertaining himself elsewhere, I shouldn’t wonder.” She looks around the room.

  At last I manage to scratch my itch
ing nose. “I beg of you, do not insist. He is jealous – and brutal.”

  Her gaze swings back upon me. “Silence. I am fixed on it. He will answer to me if he causes trouble.”

  “It’s not just that.” My eyes plead with Elizabeth’s huge shining orbs.

  In vain. “So you are sweet on her? In that case should you not be thanking me?” The Empress summons Marie, kisses her, and places her, dizzy and wilting in her male clothes – my clothes – at my disposal. “Now show me the French arts of love.”

  Marie seems to wish she could vanish, like a transposed Eurydice after one peek from an enraptured Orpheus. At last, she finds her voice. “I cannot carry out this task, Your Majesty.”

  “You must, or your whole mission is over.”

  I am unwilling to move until Marie does so. She is still motionless. I look deep, very deep into her eyes. Her lids flicker in response. I stretch out my hand towards her. She flexes her fingers by her sides and slowly raises her right arm. We touch each other’s fingertips, a tentative experiment. I jump back – shafts of fire shoot up my arm and hurtle through my nervous system.

  “Kiss now,” Elizabeth instructs.

  As I inch forward and my lips brush against Marie’s, the process seems to be reversed. Instead of pushing us apart, the embrace is pulling us together with inexorable strength, crushing my natural modesty, and hers. I float off into a daze. This closeness is what I’ve been dreaming of throughout our voyage across Europe – and now these dreams are coming real. It matters little that we’re canoodling on the orders of the Empress.

  Elizabeth leans forward to enter our planetary fields, nuzzling us apart. “Down onto the divan,” she whispers in our ears.

  We move, somnambulant, towards the couch. As we lie side by side, I start to unbutton Marie’s chemise and let my fingers drift over her gorgeous breasts. She moans and I can sense her nipples harden to my touch. Now I feel her hands scrabble lightly at the scarlet dress. She caresses my thighs until I almost beg her to release me from my stays, but I am fortunate she remembers our situation and desists from stimulating me too overtly. Soon I forget where I am, and give myself over to the joys of kissing her and sliding my hands around her breeches.