The Chevalier

by The Chevalier (retail) (epub)

  “The bandits couldn’t wrest that from me, Your Majesty.” Guerchy’s right hand stretches across to his coat pocket.

  A royal finger beckons. “May I see?”

  With a fine flourish, Guerchy passes over the scroll. Lansmartre takes it and hands it to the King. Turning it over in his hands, Louis examines it and breaks the seal. His smile soon evaporates. The silence is almost palpable. He flips over more and more pages, faster and faster, but says not a word. The tension around the Court grows ever higher. At last he turns the final page: still he says nothing.

  “Is anything wrong, Sire?” Guerchy’s solid face twitches along his left upper cheekbone.

  Even the youngest courtiers on the room’s fringes cease their chat. Another protracted pause follows, before Louis looks up, a puzzled expression crinkling his handsome brow. “I didn’t expect to read an economic history of France since my uncle’s regency, I must say.”

  “What’s that?” Lines of worry are forming across Guerchy’s own face and forehead.

  Now Conti smiles openly at Charlotte for the first time all evening. At the same time, La Pompadour glances at Stainville, a ricochet of brief alarm.

  “Read it yourself, man,” says the King. “It’s perfectly clear.”

  Conti steps forward. “I believe the Chevalier d’Éon has written such a history.”

  Everyone can hear the chimes of the great clock echoing through the Gallery. “The Chevalier?” Louis trains his jet-black eyes very hard upon Guerchy. “Then you stole it from him.”

  “No, Sire.” Guerchy’s mask is cracking, his facial tic increasing in frequency. He looks at the Marquise for support but she makes sure her eye avoids him.

  The King considers the matter a second. “Either that, or he tricked you.”

  “That’s more than probable,” Conti agrees.

  Guerchy completely loses his composure. “How can you assume that? Maybe he never got the Treaty signed after all?”

  “So it was the Chevalier negotiating, not you, Lord Douglas,” says Louis, pouncing on the words as though they were the horns of a young stag.

  “Another thing, Your Majesty,” adds Conti. “This is not the real Lord Douglas. That Scottish gentleman has been discovered in custody. Near Bellevue, I gather.” The Prince looks with pointed emphasis at the Marquise: she and Stainville stare back, seemingly unruffled.

  But Louis registers the name. “So who are you?” He glares at Guerchy – normally placid, the King is showing signs of agitation, hands gripping the arms of his throne ever tighter.

  “Your Majesty, I am Claude-Louis-François de Regnier, Marquis de Nangis, and the Comte de Guerchy.”

  “Guerchy? Guerchy of Fontenoy?”

  “The same, Sire.”

  “And President of the Parlement at Dijon, I recall.”

  Guerchy bows. “That privilege is mine.”

  “Stretcher bearers approaching from the courtyard, your Majesty,” calls Lebel. “Spokesman says their man must speak with the King right away.”

  * * *

  It is not quite the homecoming I had been planning. The feeling of bumping up a flight of steps jars me awake: I realise we must be at Fontainebleau. I reassure myself that Marie is by my side – I’m being carried by two strong countrymen, woodcutters from the Forest, on a stretcher made of staves and squeaking goatskins. My bearers march down countless corridors and enter the long chamber of the Gallery. Daylight is fading. Judging by the tops of their heads, all I can see from a distance, many courtiers and hunting cronies of the King are dotted around the vast room. Nearer to the throne, I catch glimpses of familiar faces: Rouillé, the Duc de Broglie and his brother, the Comte. There are my friends: the Prince de Conti and Charlotte. And of course there are my foes: the Marquise de Pompadour and Étienne de Stainville – not to forget, I now see, Guerchy.

  So, moving with particular care, avoiding all excesses, just as I requested when I hired them after I awoke, the woodsmen of this makeshift stretcher party carry me towards the throne.

  “Well, well, who is this come to interrupt us?” I hear Louis say.

  “It is me, Sire,” I reply, although my voice is just a croak.

  The short-sighted King takes a while to recognise me, haggard as I am. “D’Éon!” His handsome face explodes in joy, a joy that appears to be genuine. “You’ve crippled yourself, my little thing – but at least reports of your death are exaggerated.” He turns to face Marie. “And you must be… now, now, I am confused… a sort of Lady Douglas?”

  “After a fashion, Sire,” she says.

  He squints at her. “You remind me very much of someone I know. In fact…”

  This must be nipped in the bud. “Have you had any Russian news, Your Majesty?” I prop myself up as best I can upon my elbows.

  “Not a jot, I fear,” the King turns from Marie, suddenly mournful. “But, on the other hand, we’ve seen a very interesting economic history.”

  My ruse has worked. “Thank God that you don’t know,” I say.

  Louis’s downcast expression vanishes. He beams at me and, for a moment, royalty appears a natural and enlightening state. “So you’ve something else for me?”

  With as grand a gesture as I can contrive, I remove the real treaty from the lining of my jacket, now unstitched. Signalling Lansmartre to stay back, Conti steps forward, takes it from me and hands it to the King.

  I smile, first at Marie, and in the next moment at my monarch. “Russia is ours.”

  Louis breaks the imperial seal and starts to study the Treaty, turning over the pages with an increasing smirk of relish, his tongue moistening his lips. “So you’ve delivered on your promise after all. This is remarkable, Chevalier, remarkable.” He looks at me directly. “Name your reward.”

  “I want full restoration of all my estates at Tonnerre,” I say without a second’s thought. “Together with revenues and interest on the proceeds over the last seven years.”

  “Tonnerre? Tonnerre in Burgundy?” The King fixes his gaze on Guerchy. “Didn’t you get involved in a case there, General?”

  We all follow the royal example and turn to Guerchy.

  Guerchy coughs, clears his throat. “In a manner of speaking, Your Majesty.”

  “Stopped a man inheriting some land?” The King sweeps his hand in the direction of the pasture outside, as though it ran from here all the way to Auxerre.

  “The Dijon Parlement decided that on appeal, yes,” admits Guerchy.

  The King wags a finger at him. “But as the President, you had put the case to the members, I understand. You also had the right of veto?”

  “Well, strictly in law…” Guerchy now has a glazed look upon his sculpted features.

  Louis is persistent. “You chose not to exercise it.”

  “In the absence of a will, I…” stammers Guerchy, “er, we had to make a judgment.”

  I cannot let my moment pass. “But I lodged the will with the very same Parlement.”

  “That can’t be.” Guerchy is twisting his fingers together, his face aghast.

  “The receipt was signed for,” I say.

  “It must be a forgery,” mumbles Guerchy. His haunted eyes search for support. Yet I notice the Marquise and Stainville are all but turning their backs on him.

  “Tell me,” I ask the Court at large. “Who can sign for wills?”

  “Only the President,” the King replies.

  “I maintain, General, you’ve stolen what’s rightfully mine.” I try to rise from the stretcher.

  Guerchy still blusters: “There’s obviously been some legal misunderstanding.”

  “Maybe so.” The King turns on him once more. “Is that why I received a petition concerning this very case today?”

  “A trifling administrative error,” Guerchy mutters.

  Louis withdraws a scroll of parchment from his pocket, and unravels it. “This petition seeks to transfer the lands of a certain estate in perpetuity to the control of the Parlement – and with the Presi
dent enjoying a life interest?” The King looks around the long gallery.

  Guerchy’s voice is now barely audible. “I believe that such a petition is a contingency. It depends on the death of the original claimant.”

  Ever so slowly, Louis nods. “The Chevalier d’Éon.”

  “Oh, I see. You think that I am…” Guerchy flails.

  “Guilty on all counts,” asserts the King. “What do you think, my dear?” Pushing himself up from the throne, he stands and turns to La Pompadour.

  She is biting her lower lip, eyes flashing from grey to green, furious at her defeat. “It is all of no consequence. General Guerchy was telling me only recently how much he wishes to return to his army duties.”

  Louis accepts her implied surrender with a gracious bow.

  “The Parlement may not take to royal interference, Your Majesty,” says Guerchy, rearranging his features from a grimace into apparent calm. “I am a most consistent champion of the monarchy. However, the ancient rights and privileges of the Parlement make it imperative that I ask you not to overturn the considered legal opinions and judgments of so august a body.”

  With grudging admiration, I recognise the military finesse and spirit that lie behind his counterattack. It is, however, doomed.

  “Rights and privileges?” The King’s spittle is descending from the throne onto the heads of everyone nearby; I feel some droplets splatter against my cheek. “Opinions and judgments?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Now you listen to me! Do you want me to pronounce from a lit de justice on such a matter? Do you think for one moment your peers and colleagues would go to ruin with you over this point? One where it is obvious to all that you are in the wrong? If you wish me to marshal all the power of the state against Dijon because of your ridiculous folly, then please continue.” Louis is breathing hard, face reddening.

  “But, Your Majesty…”

  “Don’t interrupt me in my Court, Monsieur,” rages the King. “As I say, I’m sure your fellow members will thank you for destroying the livelihoods they’ve built with such care over the years. Moreover, do not forget that we can – and will – make recommendations on appointments in the Army: including retiring people from their ranks forthwith.” He turns around and smiles at the Marquise. “Not everyone is dependent on patronage from other interested parties. You would be very bored without your influence and both your positions, General. Your titles and your own estates would soon follow. Do I make myself clear?”

  Silent now, Guerchy stands head down, humbled, his posture no longer erect.

  Louis drinks the glass of water handed to him by Lansmartre. After a brief pause, he proclaims: “The petition from the President, or shall I say the former President, is dismissed. I grant that the claimant known as Charles, the Chevalier d’Éon de Beaumont, is henceforth restored with full, unfettered rights, and consequent revenues, tithes and interest, to all his lawful estates in the township of Tonnerre.”

  There is a rippling of applause. The King smiles down again at me from the front of the dais. I dip my own head in thanks, straining the back of my neck due to my unusual position. As I struggle to raise it, I manage to catch Marie’s eye. She shows a brief flash of concern, but I rub my neck and signal the pain is easing.

  She gazes at me, radiant. All is well. We shall be together in my home at last.

  Chapter Thirty One

  A Curtain Call

  I am amazed how fast a troop of dedicated helpers can sweep away the rubble caused by years of neglect. Once I retrieve furniture, paintings and valuables from storage, our château soon returns to its former state. The townsfolk’s earlier indifference to my claim inclines me to lock the gates and live in frigid splendour, but after a discussion with Marie in which the words “Christian charity” figure large, I prepare to be magnanimous. A sumptuous entertainment, dedicated to the harvest, will show Tonnerre that I can overlook its past sins, and have the added benefit of reminding citizens of my recent triumph.

  The afternoon before the ball I hold a small tea party for members of my family. I am now reconciled to this singular drink. Only when Victoire insists on asking for lemon, in addition to sugar, or Madame Benoist drowns my fine Chinese concoction in a torrent of cow’s milk, do I feel momentary displeasure. As the day starts to fade, I escort my early guests to the door, and prop the crutches I am using on the outside wall. Marie says her farewells and vanishes with diplomatic speed to oversee the preparation of the supper. La Borde, an intelligent young man, pock-marked yet pleasantly eager, who I have hired from the town as my valet, comes forward to assist me.

  My mother has not become more mobile in the intervening years, but she is at least still upright. And alive. This inclines me to be more sentimental than I was.

  “I am so glad you came, mother. What’s more, I’m even happier to find you fully recovered from your illness. I cannot tell you how much of a shock your message gave me.”

  So I don’t. My heart still goes cold at the memory.

  “Your father would be overjoyed to see this day. I know you think me a foolish old woman, but I believe the Black Virgin was a great aid to our cause.” We smile upon each other. Her bones give a succession of cracks as La Borde helps me guide her into the coach.

  Long fingernails graze my ear: I turn to feast my eyes on a well-known black dress. “And thank you for coming too, Victoire. I am most sorry to hear of the death of Henri’s father.” She has aged, too, and I do not think she fits the dress so well as I once did – but let it pass.

  “It was almost fate that you took back the house and found the dress in time for the funeral. I can’t think how I left it here. I had forgotten all about it.”

  All of a sudden, I find I must avert my eyes. “Fate indeed, sister.”

  “Oh, well.” She has the refinement to attempt a cheerful face. “You must visit us more often now we’re neighbours.”

  “I shall look forward to it. I owe far more to you than you can know.” And than she ever shall, I trust – at least her mourning weeds are not so vital to me now. “Most especially, I give you my thanks for bringing mother and Madame Benoist. It is vastly good to see you again, Madame.”

  Madame Benoist pulls a toothless grin. “Just like old times, young master.”

  “Very like,” I say.

  Victoire bends forward as she takes Madame Benoist by the arm. “You never told us how you came to turn the tables on the Parlement, and win back the house.”

  “It’s a long story.” I take the other elbow of my nurse, and help her into the coach. She sits opposite my mother, who is already falling asleep. “One for a quiet family occasion. But believe me, sister, you’ve all helped considerably. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must help Marie prepare for the ball.”

  My sister gives a little smile and climbs aboard. I wave their carriage off down the driveway, limping a few paces towards the gates in forlorn pursuit.

  I stop, turn and luxuriate in my property. The boards have all long been removed, and the broken window panes repaired. From this side, the stonework is in fine shape, and the shutters are sticky with fresh, light blue paint. The revitalised house gleams in the evening sun. As I bask in warm feelings of ownership, there is a growing rattle of hooves on the roadway stones, and a carriage with three orange fleurs-de-lys comes into view. Within a few moments, Charlotte, in a shower of white, descends into the courtyard.

  I step forward and take Charlotte’s hand in mine. “Welcome, my Lady, to the château.”

  “So this is what you were striving for,” she says, nodding in approval. “It all seems worthwhile now.”

  Behind her, Conti gets down from the coach, fiddling with his pocket watch.

  “Monsieur le Prince, you are punctual indeed,” I greet him.

  “Don’t be so damned polite. We’re early and you know it.” Conti frowns. “Unpardonable, I agree. Our only excuse is we have come across country from l’Adam and Chantilly. A fair journey, true enough. Had no i
dea how long it would take to get here.”

  Marie emerges from the house, now in her sumptuous scarlet dress, and joins us on the steps. We stand there admiring the setting sun on the hills and the play of evening shadows on the surrounding land. Our silence has a tinge of tension to it.

  “Madame de Courcelles, I feel I owe you an apology,” says Conti at last, shifting uneasily.

  “And so do I,” agrees Charlotte.

  Marie looks at them both in turn, but says nothing.

  “We encouraged you to see the King,” he says. “We knew he’d be entranced by your beauty; maybe, diverted by your personality. Our hope was that you could supplant La Pompadour. It was wrong of us to put you through that.”

  “Can you ever forgive us?” Charlotte is twisting her hands together.

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” says Marie.

  “But everything that happened to you? With Louis? Stainville? The Marquise? It was unconscionable.” Conti turns his face away.

  “Did it not end well for us?” Marie gives a little shake of her head. “Am I not where I want to be?” She smiles at them and then at me.

  He bows. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”

  Charlotte and Marie embrace. I feel a shiver run down my backbone as I hear the rustle of the silks and watch the intermingling of their white and scarlet dresses. I need to feed my yearning soon.

  “How can we ever wean Louis away from La Pompadour?” sighs the Prince.

  “You won’t have a chance,” says Charlotte, still with her arms around Marie. “She amuses him – that’s her secret.”

  Marie gives a little smile. “Yes, he can lie with anyone, you see, but he can laugh with very few.” She shows a brave disregard for the troubles she faced.

  “Something must break the bond.” Conti looks searchingly at me. “Some day.”

  Charlotte, tactful as ever, senses the Prince wishes to talk to me alone, and draws Marie to one side. “Do you need help organising the servants?”

  “I should be most grateful,” says Marie, quick to catch her meaning. “Since my husband… I feel a little out of practice.”