The Chevalier

by The Chevalier (retail) (epub)

  “Perhaps we should start in the kitchens.” Charlotte takes Marie by the hand.

  “Well, I think everything is under control, but one always welcomes a second opinion.”

  And so Charlotte and Marie stroll off indoors together.

  “I must say the smells of the cooking are getting my juices flowing,” I call out, as they are about to disappear. It is quite true: the simmering meats and vegetables are giving off the most delicious aroma. Although I am not a hungry man, as a rule, today I’m ravenous.

  Marie turns and gives me a smile of pure, open warmth.

  As the ladies vanish through the hall, I put my hand upon my former mentor’s shoulder. “I have you to thank for this.”

  Conti nods, and glances down at my crutches and bandaged leg: “My dear little d’Éon, no one can say you haven’t earned it.”

  “I wish all had ended happily for you.”

  He sighs. “If you could have reached the Court just one hour earlier, all would have been well – or might have been. I suppose we must always allow for the King’s unpredictability.”

  “Did you not inform me we were all expendable?”

  He has the grace and fortitude to laugh. “Probably. It sounds the type of rash statement I might make.” He pauses for a second, and looks me in the eye. “But tell me one thing, in your opinion. Could I ever have gained Poland?”

  “Almost impossible, Monsieur le Prince. It seems as though the Empress has decided Stanislaus will be Augustus’s successor. Grand Duchess Catherine is his lover now, you realise. And you could never win any election there without Russia’s support.”

  “Oh well.” His fingers rub his elegant nose. “What of the marriage to Elizabeth?”

  “Very little chance there, either. My suspicion is she already has a morganatic marriage – a marriage of unequal rank – to her loyal Ukrainian. Not that he’s ever in evidence – and I was close to her. We’re unlikely to know for sure.” I pick up my crutches. “Do you recall the way her English namesake preserved her position as Queen? She kept her independence when all around were pressing her to wed. I think the Empress learns from her example and is following it to the last detail.”

  He nods – his face assumes a philosophical air. “Perhaps it’s for the best. The path to supreme power is not an easy one.” He begins to walk through the doors. “Did you know I’m negotiating to buy an estate near here? They say the vineyards are very fine.”

  “I seem to recall you mentioning it. Which one?” I hobble in his wake.

  “Romanée.”

  “Well then, your sources are correct. The vintages are marvellous. But why this viticultural interest?”

  “You know I enjoy drinking the great wines of Burgundy. Besides, I’m less busy than I was – I need a distraction now.” He halts to allow me to catch him up. “And it would be a coup to snatch the prize from my rival bidder.”

  “Who is?” As if I couldn’t guess.

  “I think you’ve come across her.” He gives me a thin smile. “La Pompadour.”

  “Of course.” I grin back at him. “Now, for this evening, let me interest you in tasting my favourite Tonnerrois and best Chablis.” We leave the sunset to blaze out the last chords of its overture to my night of celebration. La Borde closes the doors behind us – I hand him my crutches at the foot of the stairs. Conti helps me climb to the first floor, assists me across the landing and we take a glass in my restocked library. Books rising to the ceiling on two sides, it is the most precious of all my restored rooms.

  Before we know it, other carriages are rolling up. Soon the driveway is choked; coaches are forced to leave their passengers at the gates, and even halfway down the street. The nobility and gentry make their way in our direction, the ladies holding up their dresses nervously, while their coachmen seek refuge at the overflowing inns in town. Conti and I watch from the balcony outside the library windows. A great tidal wave of humanity pours through my château’s doors, and never seems to stop.

  Tonight all the people who used to ignore me in Tonnerre and Burgundy are suddenly my friends. I excuse myself to Conti – I must play the host.

  I stumble as best I can back through the library, limp down the stairs, gripping the banister firmly, take back my crutches from La Borde and propel myself to the reception rooms to greet the guests. I act as though I never knew they didn’t care. This adoption of bonhomie soon gives me its own reward. I start to mean what I say, I begin to enjoy myself and the local dignitaries respond.

  At last I have shaken so many hands, my wrists and fingers tire. I seek a quick escape. The hallway and the three reception rooms are packed. I am completely hemmed in. A dash of colour catches my eye. Marie, her scarlet dress hugging her perfect form, leans on the upper landing above a sweep of stairs, searching for me. I shout to draw her attention, but my voice is lost in the hubbub. La Borde is also trapped in the crowd, so he cannot run an errand. I don’t wish to trouble my new-found friends. I’m stuck fast.

  Relief arrives – Conti and Charlotte join Marie on the landing and the keen-eyed Prince spots that I am jammed in a doorway. I cannot even raise my crutches, so tight is the throng. A group of town councillors surround me, congratulating me afresh, while the stale fumes of wine they’ve drunk from my cellars seep into my nostrils. Conti signals for them to part and let me through. Straining with the effort of it all, I begin to push myself forward. Guests fall back to allow me passage. Above me, I see Marie talking to a handsome woman on the stairwell.

  I reach the foot of the staircase, throw down my crutches, and grasp the edge of the balustrade. Using all my ebbing strength, I haul myself painfully to the top of the first flight. Marie comes down toward me; she helps me keep my balance as I let go the banister and stagger on the landing.

  “My dear Charles, I want you to meet a loyal friend. She’s Lydia, Comtesse de Guerchy, who has the misfortune to be still married to that ogre. She has only just been set free from a nunnery. If you recall, I had some business to attend to after Fontainebleau. That business was looking after her.”

  “Thank you for this party,” Lydia says. “And for your help with my husband.”

  I smile at Lydia, bright brown eyes and a sharp nose beneath dark hair. I am speechless, exhausted: I indicate to Marie that I must sit down after this great strain. She leads me to the library door.

  “Carry on,” she says to our friends and the guests at large. “Let the music play. I will nurse him back to health in a few minutes.”

  The doors close behind us and a surge of sound wafts from the hall as the string quartet saws in, at first discordant but soon in perfect tune. My breathing grows less rapid. Outside it’s dark: in here, a few low-burning candles cast flickering shapes across the book-lined walls.

  Marie sits me down in a chair, my father’s favourite, upright but with curved, padded arms and inviting cushions. She takes off my light blue jacket and makes my shirt loose around my torso. Now she begins to massage my neck and shoulders, in the same gentle way I used to minister to Elizabeth. My strength starts to return. I close my eyes, drifting away to the music. When I open them, I look down. My first glimpse shows my own blue pantaloons next to her bright red dress. Again, I think of Russia: I remember the Metamorphosis that took place in midsummer, when she exchanged her clothes for mine. These very clothes… I recall how beautiful a boy she was. Now I glance up at her. I see once more how beautiful she truly is.

  She’s looking at my side. A patch of blood low on my shirt shows that my wound from Germany is still not fully healed. “You should change.”

  “Not now,” I say. “I must go to my guests. They’ve been ignored too long.”

  Marie sighs, raises me from the chair, puts my arm around her and helps me hobble through the library onto the landing. The crowd notices us soon enough. An expectant quiet descends. The music stops. I feel all eyes upon us. It is as if time is standing still, waiting for revelation.

  Down in the hall, a Lieutenant of the Gua
rds arrives in the doorway. He peers around at the guests and, emboldened by many fingers pointing in our direction, makes his way upstairs. His gold and scarlet coat heads straight for Marie’s scarlet dress. He unfastens his pouch and hands a note to me. It’s from the Comte de Broglie. The silence intensifies as I read. I fold the note in two, pause and look about me.

  “My lords, ladies and gentlemen, here’s news. Frederick of Prussia has invaded Saxony without declaration of war. Austria and Russia have declared his actions beyond the bounds of international relations. France has today followed suit. So now we will have war.” I gesture to Marie and she hands me a glass. “I give you all a toast – to France, to victory – and to freedom.”

  We drink, and shouts of “France” and “freedom” echo throughout the hall. The music starts and swells once more – the cheering reaches its crescendo as I embrace Marie. The soldier drinks to victory with us, and vanishes. Guests surge around us, forcing us closer to the landing wall. I lean against it, my strength once more abating. The revelry seems to go on for hours, but eventually the guests decide it is time to leave. I say farewell to all the town – and half of Burgundy.

  At last we are alone. Marie helps me into the library. She eases me into a large English armchair, its back pitched at the right angle for relaxation, footrest by the dying fire. I lean back, stretch out my legs and she kneels at my feet. Gently, she pulls off my boots and places them by the scuttle. She rolls down my stockings, and massages around the bandage on my leg. My pains are disappearing fast. Next, she divests me of my jacket, pantaloons and shirt, careful to avoid the wound in my side, which is still oozing. She puts on a new bandage then looks up at me, with a sly smile. Can she really be about to fulfil all my desires? I longingly feast my eyes on her scarlet dress, but she shakes her head.

  It is only a temporary rebuff. She picks up a golden dress, draped over the chair (I swear it was not there before), and motions me to rise. My hand on the firm arm of the chair, one leg wavering in the air, I do so. She puts my hands through the gaps in the shoulders, pulls the dress over my head, down over my naked torso, and fusses around me in a delightful manner, adjusting it, fixing a sash and in general perfecting my appearance. Taken by storm, I cannot prevent the odd gasp at the agony of it, but soon I feel the silk, her silk, caress my body, sense the peace her dress is giving me, and look up to smile at her. She knows exactly what I need.

  Seeing me sway, she moves in to grasp my shoulders. I am so close to her, as she draws me tight to her bosom, that I can immerse myself in every subtle tinge of her perfume – lemons predominant, reminding me of all those years ago.

  “Are you ready now to make love to me, sir?”

  And, in her golden dress, I find I am.

  Strong in her mind, she takes control. She sits me down on the chair, her hands fluttering, and rustles the dress back upward over good leg and bad until my thighs are bare to the elements. A sudden draught sends a delicious stream of ice through my system. It fails to cool my ardour, however; indeed, quite the reverse. I thrill to her touch. Marie stands over me, magnificent in her soft scarlet. She is everything I wanted to become – and now I have done so. Now I can be her, now I can love her, now I can fuse myself into her. She inches the red dress up her legs, teases away her underwear, and glides down towards me to place her delicious legs on my cold thighs. I experience an almighty frisson as she eases herself upon me.

  It is pleasure unadorned, unalloyed. I can hardly believe that I have deprived myself of such a sensation for so long. And have I been depriving her? Did I not always have hints that women were subject to overwhelming feelings of euphoria? This is true. Why should it not be the same for Marie?

  Has she not shown she wanted me before? Perhaps. Why have I been so selfish, so ascetic? It must be because I was not ready. Or, she was not ready. Or, she did not think me ready for her. I thank the Lord my mind stops whirling as I succumb to the pleasures of the moment. Marie has been moving slowly, ever so slowly, but now she picks up the pace. I don’t know how long I can stand it. Scarlet on gold. Flesh on flesh. Tremor upon tremor. I am lost, exploding into a little death, and as my aftershocks subside, she shouts out in hot ecstasy and her head collapses on my shoulder. Once more I am suffused with the glorious tang of her perfume. I drink in all I can of her through each of my senses. I feel I have now – at last – become complete.

  Another breath of wind whisks the delicious scent away. Behind her, in the corner of the room, a masked figure in a long black cloak emerges from the shadows, blue curtains rippling behind him.

  “Quite a performance.” The large hands clap together in funereal rhythm.

  Marie leaps from my thighs, hands brushing down her dress.

  “Sir, you’ve been misinformed,” I say, adjusting my gold gown. “This was no masquerade.”

  “So stimulating, I’d like to take part myself. I’ve enjoyed wanting you both in turn.” The voice is distorted through the full-faced black mask, but it reminds me of an earlier, harsher time.

  “Who are you? And are you invited here?”

  The figure advances slowly towards us. A few yards away, he rips off the mask. Beneath it, there’s a handsome, rugged face. A wicked face. Guerchy.

  “I don’t need an invitation. My wife’s a guest, I gather. Anyway, I’m not here to play games. I should have killed you when I had the chance. But – third time lucky, I suppose. I’m here for my house.” Guerchy unsheathes his sword.

  “This house was never yours, and you know it. The King restored it to me. He saw through all your lies. What do you need it for?”

  “One can always use an extra pied-à-terre.” He laughs. “Still, it’s your life I want.”

  I put my injured foot upon the floor, gritting my teeth at the stabs of agony. Marie moves forward to protect me. Guerchy slashes at her, grazing her skin: she darts back, crying out. A thin line of blood trickles down her arm, and drips onto her red dress. She holds her breast and shoulder, clamping a muslin handkerchief to the wound; she is about to rally in my support when Monin slips out from behind the billowing curtains and grabs hold of her.

  “Just like on our travels, my Lady,” he hisses in her ear. “Happy days.” He seizes her handkerchief and binds it round her mouth.

  “Good timing, Monin,” says Guerchy.

  “Always a pleasure, my Lord.”

  The General turns on me: “It’s over, my little friend. The King can’t save you now.”

  I search around the room with wild eyes, see my scabbard hanging on the chair nearby, lean back and draw my sword in turn.

  “En garde, General. I fight my own battles.” This is an excellent maxim in normal circumstances, yet it may be rash today. I can hardly stand upright.

  “Very good. Prepare to fight your last.” His sword pushes mine away.

  Our duel now begins in earnest. He slashes at me. Our sabres meet, reverberate and rebound with staggering force. We jockey for position, as I sway, unsteady under the impact. I am still barely able to move my feet; he laughs once more as he sees how I’m labouring.

  “Only a coward fights a cripple,” I gasp out between breaths.

  “Cripple!” Guerchy sneers, unleashing a torrent of heavy sword strokes at my reeling form. “You’ve speeded up. Now it’s a fair fight. But power will tell.”

  “Oh yes?” My sabre takes a mighty blow from Guerchy’s, the clang echoing around the shelves – I rock backward towards the fire.

  “My power…”

  I am forced down onto one knee, my gold dress rustling, the train close to the flaring embers. No time to talk.

  “To gain revenge…” Guerchy is trying to bludgeon me into submission with repeated blows. “For all the humiliation…”

  There is a thunderous metallic clash of swords. No space to breathe.

  “All the deception…”

  Now I must rally. I feint to Guerchy’s right, drive left and push myself back onto both feet as he jumps away. I am in agony.


  “All the sophistry…”

  Guerchy spits out the words as he lunges once more; even though I’m on my feet again, I feel I’m rocking in an unstable fashion. No energy to move around. None to speak.

  “And all the hurt you’ve caused.”

  My God, preserve me. Now a thrust from Guerchy takes me unawares and tears into my shoulder. I stagger back, gasping with pain. Marie screams out, a muffled shriek through her muslin gag. Monin twists it another notch.

  “Your female wiles can’t help you.” Guerchy gestures at his ward. “Nor can hers. Bow to a real man.”

  I lean against the wall behind the chair, blood pouring from my wound. Its brilliant red is staining the shoulder of my golden dress.

  “So you think I’m a woman, Lord Douglas?” I need a moment.

  “What? Don’t start that Douglas nonsense again.”

  “But do you? Really?”

  It can’t save me for long. Guerchy renews the assault. “I don’t care any more…” A slash from his blade comes near my throat – once more, I’m just able to parry.

  “So you say.”

  “I am the Lord of Burgundy…”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marie shrink deeper into Monin’s spindly clutch. She groans as a further flurry of blows beats down on me.

  “No…” I’m losing what little power I have – my technique can’t save me forever.

  “And there’s no home for you here.” He strikes at me with vicious speed.

  I’m barely hanging on. “It’s mine, Lord Douglas.”

  “Just a fine place to die…”

  Another confident attack. My body seems to be weakening. I don’t know how much longer I can hold him back.

  “Surrounded by all this…”

  His sword describes a circle around the room.

  “And your minx swathed in that damned gown…”

  Guerchy’s swordtip flicks at the tear in Marie’s clothing. More bleeding colours her pale skin. She screams again into her gag.

  “The story of your lives,” mocks Guerchy: “books, blood and a bright red dress.”