The Chevalier

  “Give me the papers.” His foot skewers my coat to the roadway.

  “I don’t have them on me.”

  He slowly withdraws his sword from its ornate scabbard. “Then I must have satisfaction.”

  “Can’t you see I’m wounded?”

  “It’s the only reason I don’t shoot you on the spot.” My Lord grants me his most gracious smile.

  “You’re a despicable coward, you know that.”

  “Voltaire didn’t think so, did he? Hero of Fontenoy, and all that stuff.”

  “It proves the master’s not infallible, I’d say. You’re also a bully and a fraud.”

  Guerchy puts down his pistol, face dark with anger and the sun behind him. My stubbornness goads him, I like to think, even more than my insults.

  “And you defy the natural order of things. You lure people into your web, then leave them there to shrivel up and die. I’ve put up with your mockery, your ambiguity, your despicable new ways – now it’s time to restore order.”

  He swishes his sword and steps back from his position on my coat. With his left hand, he beckons me to rise. I haul myself painfully to my feet, yet once upright I stumble, finding it almost impossible to stand on my left leg. I have to fight: he will allow nothing else. We must renew our duel from Caporya. I draw my sword.

  Guerchy comes on to me very fast. I consider I put up brave resistance, but on one leg, I can’t use any of my speed of movement. We fight in a circle, with him revolving, me at the still centre. Despite my huge disadvantage, the fight drags on for five, ten minutes; to my surprise, I’m holding him. I must be the better swordsman.

  Sweating with effort, seething with exasperation, the General lashes out with his foot at my good right leg. He catches it a fearful blow. My injured limb cannot support me. Off balance, I totter and fall. Once back on the ground, I am soon overwhelmed. Next instant, Guerchy’s swordtip is at my throat. “Monin, quick, search his saddlebag.” He picks it up and lobs it to his servant with one hand, both his eyes fixed upon me. “Anything?”

  “A bound and sealed sheaf of papers, my Lord.” Monin holds them aloft.

  “Hah! Bring them with us.”

  His servant glowers down at me. “What about him?”

  “Leave him. He’ll die soon enough.” Guerchy rises back onto his feet, knees cracking, and turns away to take the papers.

  “And Madame de Courcelles?” Monin’s rough voice takes on lascivious tones.

  “Get her from the carriage. I’ll wait for you.”

  I watch from the sun-baked earth as Monin plunges into the undergrowth. He pulls at leaves, breaks branches, batters trunks, until their carriage stands revealed. My whole being shivers as I see Marie seated on the ground, bound to the wheel, gagged, her eyes staring wildly across at me.

  Monin ungags her, releases her arms and legs, and drags her out of the sheltered undergrowth by the rope around her wrists. Her white dress is dishevelled from the imprisonment. As I look at her, my feeling is that we are lost. I am wracked with agony, prostrate upon the ground, helpless to defend her. Or myself, for that matter.

  Guerchy looms over me and waves the sealed papers in my face. “An ignominious end. I’ll mention you in my report, of course.”

  “No one will believe you.”

  “Who else is there to trust?”

  “They know you haven’t the brains.”

  Guerchy slices the air with his sword, his teeth wolfish. “You’ve jeered at me once too often.” With a jab, he pierces the skin of my unprotected hip. The agony is excruciating and my blood flows freely. I fear he’s about to finish me off just as Marie, straining at her bonds, staggers up. Monin keeps a firm hand on the rope.

  “Stop that!” she calls out, a catch in her voice. A catch that is dear to me, even in the midst of my suffering.

  “What’s the matter with you, woman?”

  “He’s badly hurt.”

  “Well, who do you think hurt him? Not that it was all down to me. I didn’t ask him to take a tumble from his nag.”

  “But a murder in cold blood…”

  Guerchy throws his sword into the earth, where it sticks, twanging from side to side. “Have it your own way. But don’t expect any help from us. You can watch over him till he dies – which won’t be long, I reckon. It’s the Bastille if you return: don’t even think of your inheritance.”

  “I’d rather be his pauper than live in endless riches with you.”

  “Good. Because that’s exactly what’s going to happen. Adieu, my Lady Douglas.”

  Upon which, with his mocking laughter ringing in our ears, Guerchy snatches up his quivering sword. Monin spurs the horses out of the undergrowth and sets their carriage back upon the road. We watch them as they cross the bridge and disappear into the wood on the far bank.

  Marie scrapes at the bonds on her wrists until she loosens them. She rubs at her sore arms, stands unsteadily and comes over to kneel at my side. “Can you move?”

  “A little. I think I’ve been lucky. It’s missed my vital organs.”

  She tears strips from my shirt to staunch the bleeding. “So can you make it to shelter?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll try.”

  She hauls me, in painful stages, to my feet. The feeling is unbearable. With my left leg in such a state, it is most difficult for me to move. No, it’s impossible. Blood is oozing from the wound at my hip. I collapse in the shade of a tree a few yards from the bridge.

  “I’ll get help,” she assures me, even as I slip out of consciousness.

  * * *

  Guerchy is looking most pleased with his situation as the carriage rolls onward, even allowing himself to hum a martial air, soon echoed by whistling from Monin above. The coach leaves the wood, crests a hill and the panorama of a gentle valley opens before them. He leans out of the window to address his servant in the driver’s seat.

  “A good day’s work, Monin.”

  “Most satisfactory, my Lord.”

  “Do you think I should have finished him off?”

  “I do, sir – and the lady.” A shepherd is approaching with his flock.

  “That’s rather harsh. She is my ward, you know.”

  Monin brings the horses down to walking pace. “So many accidents happen on the roads these days. Especially, my Lord, when war is near.”

  “Well, you may be right, but it’s all immaterial. Come down here a moment.”

  With a glance at the sheep, Monin pulls on the reins and halts the carriage. He swings in agile fashion down through the window to sit next to his master.

  “I think I’ll read a little of this treaty,” says Guerchy. “The one, you understand, that I have brought to such a successful conclusion.”

  “I should not advise that, General.”

  “What? Don’t you think I should know what I’m about?”

  Bleating sheep stream past on either side of the carriage. A shepherd’s crook pulls strays from the ditch, while a dog nuzzles them onward.

  “Undoubtedly, my Lord. But to break the seal would give away your actions. It would undo all your good work.”

  “Very well. I suppose it makes sense. Don’t want to spoil the effect – I can see that. It’s probably the usual legal verbiage. I’ll have a nap instead.”

  * * *

  I awaken to the sound of voices. Once more I am back in Rosa’s bed at the inn. Maybe I am fated to keep returning here forever. The trials of Sisyphus appear trivial in comparison: at least he could move. The thought of movement now is too exhausting. Even my eyes are stuck fast together. Judging by the direction of the muffled sounds I hear, Rosa and Marie are watching over me on either side of the bed. As though emerging from deep underwater, my ears take time to become attuned to their talk.

  Rosa speaks between little gasps that may be sobs. “He should never… have left… before he was… ready.”

  “I know. He’s almost too brave, foolhardy,” replies Marie. “He’s… remarkable.” This is music to me. I
determine that I shall remain motionless.

  There is a rustling of skirts. I can feel them moving away from me until the gentle swishing ceases – they must be at the end of the bed, face to face.

  “You realise I had nothing – you know – to do with him?” Rosa’s sincerity outmatches her accuracy (she had plenty to do with her, as it were), but, in my condition, I’m prepared to let it pass.

  More important, so is Marie. Her sigh fills the room. “Don’t worry yourself. What’s done is done. He’s ruled by an obsession, you know.”

  “Aren’t all men?”

  “Maybe, but in my experience most are bent upon taking off our dresses. I have met no one so compelled to put them on.”

  “What a sight that was! I was quite taken in at first,” says Rosa.

  There’s a long silence. I am rigid with a sudden fear, unable to breathe. Fever is taking hold. What if Rosa were to make advances on Marie? And, worse, much worse, what if Marie were to respond? My head begins to swirl: my wounded hip begins to ache.

  “We were all deceived, Rosa. He took in half of Europe.”

  The pause is even more protracted. They’re kissing, I’m sure of it. But I don’t hear the suction of lips upon lips. In fact, there comes the blessed sound of sobs, prelude to tears.

  “Here, take my handkerchief. He also has his quest, he says.”

  “Yes, he has that.” Marie sniffles a second or two, and blows her nose. “But all of it is ended now. I fear that he may lose his life.”

  “He’s stronger than you think. Our doctor says that he’ll pull through.”

  “I pray to God.” Now it is Marie’s turn to take in lots of air. If I can survive and move quickly, there is still hope. I fade to sleep.

  * * *

  Monin guides the carriage from the muddy country lanes onto the cobbled streets of town. A golden vision lies in front of him. A street, broad as a substantial garden, with mansions of yellowing stone on either side, stretches away down a gentle slope. On the far rise, a still more wondrous vista is unveiled: he halts the coach a moment to drink in the sight. There, gleaming in near-symmetrical splendour at the top of the incline, sparkles a huge and glorious Palace, the mightiest on earth.

  The dozing Guerchy wakens with a start, yawns and stretches. “Where are we, Monin?”

  “Versailles, my Lord.”

  The General pulls aside the blind and looks around. “It seems pretty damned empty to me.”

  “Yes, sir. That would appear to be the case.”

  “Listen, I know that little fool is shattered, dead for all I care, but we haven’t got all year to find the King. I need to see him soon. Ask someone where he is, will you?”

  “He may still be in residence, sir. It’s early yet.”

  “Don’t be obtuse, Monin. We can see the Court is gone.”

  * * *

  The monsters are crowding all around me, pointing at me and squeezing me until I feel on the verge of collapse. “It’s late,” I believe I’m shouting in my sleep. “Too late.” I wake up, sweating and gasping for breath as Marie runs into the room.

  She mops the moisture from my brow. “You’re with friends here. Be calm.”

  “But we must hasten to the King.” I try to sit up, without much success.

  “Guerchy’s more than four days on. With the papers he took from you, if you recall.” She adjusts some bolsters behind my back. “You can’t possibly catch him.”

  “All the more reason to hurry,” I croak. The smell of frying bacon drifts through the windows from the kitchens below, sharpening my senses.

  “You’re also not remotely fit to travel.”

  I wave her objections aside, my hands fluttering, weak as those of an old man. “I’m alive. It’s vital we move fast. Hire a coach – now.”

  “And, to conclude, Charles, you know we can’t afford it.”

  “Sell everything. Borrow anything. But get it for me, please. This is life or death.”

  Marie’s soft skin tautens across her high cheekbones, a picture of concern and weary resignation. It is also the face of love.

  * * *

  Unhindered by his entourage, the King wanders alone at Fontainebleau in the flower beds, examining the dead heads of withered roses. Between giving directions to the gardeners concerning the spread of manure, Louis regards the formal arrangement with an expert’s condescension, shaking his head in bewilderment. From a distance, César Gabriel girds himself to approach the King. He steals upon Louis as the gardeners disperse.

  “What d’you think of these, eh?” The King acknowledges his presence without looking up. “Not a patch on my innovations at Versailles, are they?”

  “I have not had the pleasure of seeing your originals, Your Majesty.”

  “Some day, some day. Let me tell you, they’re in a different class. But maybe we can do something here. The soil and aspects are fine.”

  Now the subtle aromas of the plants and herbs announce themselves to César Gabriel. “Doubtless your genius, Sire, can wreak a transformation.”

  Louis nods in agreement, before switching his black-eyed gaze to his subject. “I do hope you’re not going to bore me with more stories about your cousin and the Marquise.”

  “Your Majesty surprises me – I have no information not already at your fingertips.”

  “Well, well, what is it then?”

  “I merely wished to draw your attention to a further abuse of legal authority, Sire.”

  “This is hardly my business. I cannot concern myself with all the petty details of administration. I would go mad, quite mad, d’you hear?”

  “It concerns a Parlement, Sire. As I mentioned before.”

  Louis pauses. “One of those damned Parlements, eh? They’re always a nuisance, certainly. Oh, very good. Please enlighten me. But I make no promises.”

  * * *

  From the summer house in the gardens of Bellevue, small echoing sounds rival the birds’ chatter. Two dice rattle against each other, roll across the board, and come to a halt with a final whirling and a satisfying click. “One thing intrigues me, Étienne.” The Marquise moves her last pieces off the board, and places them upon the central strut. “Double gammon, I think?”

  “You have me, once again.” Stainville reaches for his pocketbook. “What’s that come to, my dear?”

  She raises four fingers. “You are ambitious. I like that. Yet you are married to the richest woman in France, and she is neither ugly nor a tyrant. What drives you on?”

  Stainville scribbles a banker’s draft. “Power, I think. I admit I had some small yearning for vast wealth, but that is satisfied. Now I am hungry to exert dominion.”

  “I see. In that case, why do you not ally yourself to the King?” She starts to reset the pieces. “Another game?”

  He nods. “I have nothing against the King. I will be content to serve him one day, when circumstances and events fall into place. But Jeanne, with you, I can touch power and beauty. With the King, it is vainglory and vanity.”

  She smiles – she begins to move towards him, but there is a knock at the door. Collin appears with a tray, puts three cups on the table, pours from a pot and hands his mistress a note. As Collin retires, Guerchy strolls into the little summer house.

  “Congratulations, Comte.” The Marquise takes a sip of tea. “Or, perhaps, I should thank my Lord Douglas. You have the treaty with you?”

  Guerchy pats at his coat. “Still sealed.”

  “Show it to me.” She replaces her pink patterned cup upon its Vincennes saucer.

  “With pleasure.” He dips into his breast pocket, and removes the papers with a flourish.

  Her eyes shine a brilliant green. “Can I read it?”

  Stainville stays her hand. “That’s a Russian seal – the King would know it had been broken.”

  “What would I do without you, Étienne?” She flashes teeth of unusual whiteness. “You’ll make a splendid first minister.”

  “As ever, Marquise, you’re mo
st kind. Being an Ambassador does have its uses,” Stainville says. “One learns a different class of deception.”

  She turns her grey-green eyes on Guerchy. “And you, General. Or should I say – Field Marshal.”

  “I’m deeply honoured.” He dips his head so far he almost spills his cup upon the table.

  “You’ve brought the war closer,” she says.

  “Thank you, Madame,” he smiles, flicking a drop of liquid from the front of his wig. “I’ve tried to fulfil my brief to your satisfaction. But can I ask you a question?”

  La Pompadour exchanges a glance with Stainville. “Certainly.”

  “Was it official French policy to make a treaty with Russia?” Guerchy looks at both his paymasters in turn.

  “Not until now,” says Stainville.

  Guerchy cannot prevent a frown darting across his forehead. “Then why are you so pleased?”

  “First, it proves what we’ve long suspected – the King conducts his own policy through secret spies and treaties,” says the Marquise. She sighs, and shakes her head.

  “And second, since it is signed,” says Stainville; “we’re going to adopt it as official policy and claim the credit.”

  “Ingenious.” Guerchy leans back in his chair.

  “You’ll want to be the first to tell the King of this, I’d think?” One of her eyebrows rises, plucked to perfection. “Those two long rides have earned you that privilege.”

  “I should be honoured. Indeed, I anticipated your largesse. But I found the Court gone from Versailles,” says Guerchy. “Where is he?”

  Stainville waves a hand toward the east. “At Fontainebleau.”

  “What a deuced merry-go-round this hunting is. I’ll go there straightaway. More or less. As it happens, I have some other business in that vicinity.” Guerchy gets up and hovers with an air of mystery, hoping for further interrogation.

  La Pompadour does not disappoint him. “One more thing…”

  “Yes?” Guerchy halts.

  “What became of our – friend?” She reaches for her fan.