The Chevalier

by The Chevalier (retail) (epub)

  “Dashed bad luck. Some bandits, you know,” Guerchy lets his hands fall to his side in resignation. “I tried to save him.”

  “And was it really a him?” drawls Stainville

  “Who knows…?” Guerchy pauses, looks at them both, waits a second as the question hangs in the air, then turns and heads out into the gardens.

  * * *

  Thank God the rains have not returned. Our carriage rushes down the roads from Strasbourg and through the towns in Eastern France, every mile such an ordeal that I think it will be my last. I bicker with Marie – I say we must keep going, but my wounds are rendering me so weak, my spirit dims. Finally, I have to agree that we must rest at Vitry-le-François.

  As night falls, Marie half-carries me from the coach to the Lion of France, hard by the bridge on the river Marne. The second we cross the threshold of the inn, I recognise the distinctive smell of the coarsest tobacco known to man. Sure enough, through the fug I make out a great shape standing by the fireplace, and soon pick up the traces of a well-known voice.

  “And then His Majesty said to me, all personal like – least I reckon it was me ‘cos he was looking me straight in the eye – he said your regiment has won the day for France. D’you know, that was worth all the medals I never got and all the injuries I did.” The encircling group of roughnecks puff at their pipes, nodding in a manner that suggests they’ve heard the tale before.

  “Yves,” I say, as loud as I am able.

  “In the name of the Well-Beloved, if it isn’t the little adventurer,” he exclaims and blows a mighty blast of smoke in my face. “Are you looking for a ride again?”

  I splutter, rubbing my eyes, while I cogitate on this. I suspect I am, now. Why didn’t I think of it before? “Where will the King be, do you know?”

  “Most years it would be hard to say, but this year I hear he’s going early to Fontainebleau. That’s your best bet.”

  “If you take me as far as Meaux, you will be doing my limbs a great favour.”

  “Well, I don’t know about any favours, but I’ll do it for my usual fee.”

  My hand pats my dwindling purse. “When can you leave?”

  “First light, if it suits. We’ll take the carriage post to Épernay. My barge is waiting there.”

  I turn to Marie. “Wake me at six. We’re sailing to Fontainebleau.”

  * * *

  On the great terraces at Fontainebleau away to the west, Louis and Conti look out over the gardens, now undergoing the first stages of His Majesty’s renovations. A fresh wind is blowing splashes of water from the fountains onto their part of the balustrade. Louis removes his hat and dabs at his face with a handkerchief. He swivels and strolls away from the impromptu shower: Conti does likewise, a few seconds and a few paces behind his sovereign. As soon as they are out of range of the Palace, the King stops and turns to his companion: “I am sorry to say this, cousin, but I fear the game is up.”

  “Your Majesty, I know that things look poor for us, but…”

  “Poor, d’you say? Poor? We have been thoroughly outfoxed by my mistress and her protégé.”

  A small group of courtiers come out through the high doors onto the terrace. Conti glances at them and lowers his voice. “It seems that way, yes, but let’s wait till the Chevalier returns. Only then will we know the truth.”

  “Have you not heard Lord Douglas is back in the country, man? On his own! Your little chap’s not coming home, I tell you. Moreover, your pretty piece has made an enemy of La Pompadour for all to see. Couldn’t you have kept control of your mistress? I can’t have that, not at all. All my hopes are in ruins.”

  “We may be in at the kill yet, Sire. The Secret is still operating.”

  “Let me remind you of something, cousin. At my Court I enjoy less control than an advocate standing before a judge at the Chatelet, over my armies I exert less power than a Colonel. It is through the Secret that I regain what I have lost. Once it is threatened, I have nothing.” The King sets off on another perambulation away from his courtiers.

  “It is not over yet, Your Majesty. You may have pulled off the most brilliant transformation of alliances of all time.” Conti almost draws level. “And, I must add, I have not given up on Poland.”

  Louis sniffs. “You can put those dreams behind you. The Secret may yet live, but you are no longer in charge.” He raises his hand to ward off any complaint. “I cannot afford to carry a compromised spymaster. You of all people must understand that. Please ask the Comte de Broglie to attend me at his earliest convenience, will you? I wish you good day, cousin.”

  * * *

  Near Dijon, the late afternoon sun beats down on the walls of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart. All is drowsy, all is peaceful: in the fields to the east, the Burgundy farmers are sending out long lines of peasants to cut the corn and prepare the hay in bales for gathering. Upon the hills in the distance, the vines are ripening fast.

  Within the convent, the chanting of the choir drifts out from the chapel and reaches the second floor, the domain of the Mother Superior. From an inner casement, two figures look down on a pen at the far side of the yard, where some pigs are being fed. The woman in black is unaffected; the tall man in the red uniform shudders as the stench is borne to his nose, as though the sung prayers are carrying it aloft.

  The convent bells begin to ring. Guerchy watches his wife, pails of water in each hand, walking with a slow, careful tread across the courtyard. She looks so natural, so unaffected – and why wouldn’t she? She does not realise that he is there. He has never known her normally darting eyes to look this much at rest. He feels a tug of regret for their departed life. Perhaps she has suffered long enough. He wants to call out to her, even to hold her once more, but a lifetime of military rectitude restrains him.

  “Ah yes, you’re the sponsor of Sister Lydia,” says the Mother Superior to his scarlet shoulder. “We’ve seen many similar cases here. They start off rebellious but sooner or later the reality of their predicament hits home. Those afflicted in this way become more docile, they take an interest in the daily life of the convent, and their thoughts inevitably veer towards religion. In short, they become nuns – just like the rest of us.”

  “Can I ever see her outside the convent?”

  “Sometimes we attend services at the Chapel of the Good Lady, on the road into Dijon. I suggest you go there one day.”

  “Thank you, Reverend Mother.”

  Lydia puts down the pails and sways into the pigpen, the last glimpse of her black robes neither flattering nor comely, yet somehow – in a strange way – stirring. The General tries to banish awkward thoughts. Does that old rogue Richelieu have a point after all?

  A little clearing of the throat restores him to the present. The Mother Superior’s smile is one of farewell. Guerchy turns to leave. Maybe he’ll be back soon. It would be good to have some female to adulate him once more. How they worship success, he muses. He is successful now. Again. Besides, the girls of the Palais-Royal are becoming exorbitant in their demands. And Marie was quite impossible…! But he has work to complete. He descends the staircase to the courtyard, grasps the reins of his stallion, and heads west for Dijon and the royal Palace at Fontainebleau, the chimes from the convent bells pursuing him down the dusty road.

  * * *

  Despite his reek of alcohol and the fug of his pipe – neither of which are to my taste – Yves is a man of his word. We are away before any of the townsfolk are stirring, leaving the mighty castle behind us. The sun comes up as we reach Épernay; from there the barge flies downstream past the great towns of Champagne. Marie perches beside me, holding my hand, protecting me from harmful forces – but the water transport is so much smoother than the road that I float away, lulled into a peaceful sleep.

  I come awake to find her gazing at my face. My spirit is both uplifted and calm.

  “Where have you been in your dreams?”

  “I’ve been revisiting a vision. One from my travels through Germany,” I s
ay.

  “What vision? Your face was a picture of bliss.”

  “Passing through Leipzig, I made my coachman Kazimir stop for half an hour at Zimmermann’s Coffeehouse, a former haunt of Bach. While waiting for my drink, I heard a man mention a concert of his music that day at the Thomaskirche. It’s the very church where he played for so long and which holds his bones. Even though we were in Saxony, this could be part of my sham report for Wilhelmine, I thought. I advised Kazimir that he had time for a decent meal, and crossed the market square.

  “As I took my place in the pew, a most harmonious fugue for organ, based on a piece by my beloved Vivaldi, was filling the church to its high rafters. Next, the orchestra played another most sublime air: Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring. And then, to make my happiness complete, the choir joined in. I felt we must be very close to heaven. I looked around me at the solid faces, wreathed in smiles or tight with concentration. We listened finally to part of a cantata that I am convinced exerted unconscious influence on the great composer’s son.

  “I was still trembling with emotion when I walked from the church, looked down and saw that I was standing on Bach’s last resting place. I muttered a swift prayer in Latin for his soul. A shiver ran through my body. Then I glanced up at a brilliant blue sky and knew I’d truly had a glimpse of paradise.”

  “You will see it again,” she says, squeezing my hand. “All in good time.”

  I smile at her. “I should have done more to help you in Caporya.”

  “You did what you had to do. I begged you not to jeopardise your mission.”

  At last my conscience is at peace.

  The journey that took four days upriver now lasts only a day. Meaux is full of bustle when we arrive that evening. We offer our bargee many thanks and nearly all our remaining funds, and quit the Marne with great regret. On behalf of my battered limbs and aching wound, I wish that we could carry on with Yves.

  Within a few minutes, we pledge the rest of our money on a barouche and ride out into the night, leaving the city behind us, turning south and aiming for Fontainebleau. To travel at this hour is a risk, but one that we must take. Back in a carriage, bouncing along on rough highways, Marie resumes tending to my shattered body with the utmost care. Nevertheless, I can’t suppress a wince each time the vehicle jolts – and it is jolting a great deal.

  We thunder through the darkness; dawn greets us on the edge of Melun, and now we’re on the last stretch. I can hardly remain conscious. Yet we must reach the Palace in the next few hours and I must be at my sharpest. On a narrow path through the Forest, I glimpse some woodsmen and I sense us slowing down. I remember nothing more.

  Chapter Thirty

  Justice

  The setting sun is flooding the fields of Fontainebleau with golden light. A farmhand crosses the mown meadow next to the Palace, weighed down with sheaves of freshly harvested corn. Above him, a flight of swallows wheels about the sky in uniform precision, preparing to go south. Four men on horseback near the royal castle regard them for a moment as they weave their patterns. The bright hunting jackets of silver, yellow, red and green sparkle in the sun’s rays.

  “An excellent day in the field, gentlemen.” Louis dismounts, pulls off his kidskin hunting gloves, their whiteness flecked with mud, and slaps them against his side. A favourite hound bounds up to lick the spot. His trusted valet, Lebel, takes control of his grey mare.

  The green-jacketed Comte de Broglie leaps down from his horse and passes the King a glass of cognac from the tray held out by Lansmartre. “You will soon rid France of stags, hares and foxes for all time, Sire.”

  “Too kind, too kind. One does one’s best.” The King downs his brandy in one gulp. “That’s the ticket. Thank you, Monsieur.” He gazes at his companions, his black eyes soon shifting from a vigorous gleam to melancholy. “However, I fear the problems of the chase echo the cares of kingship. No sooner have I put down one beast, than another springs up, even more devious, to take its place. Am I not right, cousin?”

  “Doubtless, Your Majesty.” Conti, still holding his stallion’s reins, is staring out over the fields at the Forest’s edge.

  The King turns away and addresses the two Broglie brothers, who are attending to him with more eagerness and tact. “Tell me again, which one of you is the Duc? You make a man awfully confused, you know?”

  “I am, Sire.” The Duc steps forward, brushing at his red coat, leaving Lebel to guide their horses towards the stables.

  Louis waves him away. “Well, it’s your brother I need.” He beckons to the younger Broglie. “Come converse with me. I find that younger brothers of great houses suit better for my purposes – more to gain, less to lose, more pliable.”

  “As you wish, Your Majesty.” The Comte de Broglie walks over to the King.

  “Well, it is as I wish, it is. Sometimes I believe the same precept may apply to younger sisters, you know.” Louis thinks about pursuing the matter, consults the moon rising in the still clear sky for an answer, shakes his head and turns back to the younger Broglie. “Take this little matter of the Secret, for instance. You understand the Prince de Conti has rendered me great service, but now he has quarrelled with the Marquise, that must all be set at naught. For it won’t do – I cannot have a master of the Secret who is so, how shall I put it, known and visible. D’you see?”

  “Perfectly, Sire,” says Broglie. In the background, Conti remains expressionless.

  Louis continues. “The whole point, Broglie, is that I must be free to make judgments and decisions without all this unnecessary interference from my ministers – or mistresses.” The King frowns and flicks a few stray leaves from his person. “As soon as someone guesses what I am doing or even knows who is the instrument of my policy, my freedom is gone. I cannot allow that.”

  Broglie leans forward so he is as near to Louis as etiquette allows. “You can rely on my discretion.”

  The King sucks in a mouthful of air through tightly closed teeth. “Three points to bear in mind: don’t cross Madame de Pompadour, don’t draw attention to yourself and don’t run away with ideas above your station.” Smiling at this, Louis turns once more to Conti. “Good advice, eh, cousin?”

  Conti swivels away from his contemplation of the trees. His equilibrium restored, he nods slowly in agreement with the King, yet does not speak.

  “Excellent advice, Sire,” stresses Broglie, with a hint of haste to fill the silence.

  “I’m always thinking of France. I do try to make an effort, you see.” Louis puckers his lips as he recalls his years of self-sacrifice. He starts to walk up the broad stone steps towards the open glass doors of the great hall. The Broglies attend him at a respectful distance, Conti following several paces behind.

  The Duc clears his throat. “We all appreciate what you do for us and for the country, Sire. Both my brother and I are keen to serve you in any capacity you think best.”

  “Certainly, certainly.” Louis leads his noble retinue indoors. “I am mindful of the loyalty that you and so many others show me. Look at the Marquise de Pompadour over there.” He points to the far end of the Francis I Gallery, where Stainville is escorting her as she studies some newly hung paintings. “She pleases me and relaxes me. She renders me great service, and is truly indispensable. But I would no more tell her everything I know and do than I would the King of England.”

  Before anyone can think up a tactful reply, the main doors burst open and Lansmartre hurries in, clothing draped over his arm. “There is a person of importance at the gates, Your Majesty.” He helps Louis remove his mud-spattered silver coat, replacing it with a new purple jacket of finest satin.

  “Come, gentlemen, we must attend to business.” The King fusses his factotum away and peers out of the high windows. As the sun sets, he sees Guerchy’s coach entering the vast courtyard of the Palace, nudging its way through a mass of hounds and hangers-on.

  Leaping from the doors of the carriage while it is still moving, Guerchy races up the stone steps
into the Palace. He strides with great briskness and self-satisfaction through the hallways, his well-polished leather boots clattering on parquet floors, until he reaches the Gallery. At the entrance, he mutters an introduction to the ageing valet.

  “The Minister Plenipotentiary to Russia begs leave to attend Your Majesty,” calls Lebel.

  Guerchy approaches Louis across the wide room, the King now astride his place on the royal platform, rubbing his dirty hunting breeches. Broglie and the Duc stand close behind the throne, shaking their heads at Guerchy’s appearance. However, they are reluctant to reveal a fellow soldier’s identity. Conti lounges in the background with Charlotte: he stills her sudden lurch of recognition. Strolling up from the far borders of the Gallery, La Pompadour and Stainville smile upon their agent.

  Louis’s black eyes squint at Guerchy. “Lord Douglas, is it not? Where’s your lady? I was told you had one. And, more to the point, where’s young D’Éon?” He looks around him in confusion, peers at the doorway in vain.

  “We had an unhappy meeting with some bandits, Sire.” Guerchy stays bolt upright, military training to the fore.

  “What? Dead?” Louis lets the word hang in the air for an age. “Both of them?”

  “Not quite. At least, not when I left them. I managed to overcome the footpads and preserve my companions’ lives,” says Guerchy. “Afterwards, I made arrangements for their welfare with some people at a nearby inn, but then necessity hurried me on. Sad to relate, I think they may have been past help.”

  The King’s hands rise in helpless enquiry. “Where did this take place?”

  “On the wild roads of Baden,” Guerchy replies. Mistaking the King’s blank look, he adds: “In Germany.”

  “Shame. A great shame.” Louis shakes his head. The next moment, sorrow deserts him for hope. “But was the mission a success? Do you have the Treaty?”