Garden of Venus (26 page)

The young footman looks quite dashing in de Polignac livery of blue and white, the livery he will have to exchange for something that would allow their disguise to work. If he is surprised, he does not let on. He isn’t though. Mistresses and masters have their whims, better indulged without much thinking about. It is his role to keep his mouth shut and do what they want.

They would make handsome maids, he says, making both laugh with delight. But it is Sophie who spots the most glaring giveaways: powder on their cheeks, the perfume, the padding in their hair. Splashing themselves with water as if they were girls, they wash and put on thin, coarse dresses, laced at the front. Sophie insists they practise the way they will walk in the street, free from the wires that hold their gowns, lighter, faster. ‘Like a cat,’ she says, and takes a few steps.

‘Like a cat,’ Diane repeats and follows her, her hands flailing as if she needed to steady herself.

‘Not like that,’ Sophie insists. ‘You’ll spoil everything. Watch me.’ She has taken off her shoes and wears a pair of maid’s slippers. Her hips sway as she walks. A she-cat on a roof, red hot from the sun.

‘Your turn,’ Sophie orders. ‘Just do what I do. Exactly what I do.’

‘But you do it so well,’ Diane says in awe, making her best imitation of Sophie’s new gait. ‘As if you were born in these.’ She points at the dress she is wearing, at a tear on her arm, too hastily repaired, a thread hanging loose.

‘Come on,’ Sophie says, biting off the thread with her teeth. She is satisfied with the outcome of the rehearsal, with their new look. ‘We are ready.’

The footman now wearing brown breeches and a white shirt open at the neck, says he knows of a dance nearby, in a tavern a few streets away. They could all walk there, if Madame wishes it. ‘Madame is Flora from now on,’ Sophie says. ‘Madame de Reniere’s undermaid, if anyone asks.’

‘And your name is Lou-Lou,’ Diane says.

‘A milliner’s apprentice from Rue-St Jacques.’

A walk filled with delights, a plunge into a throng of passersby: pedlars, vendors, servants, journeymen, soldiers. They are surrounded by women with babies at their breasts, older children holding onto their skirts, insisting on a treat or demanding attention; dogs sniffing them as they pass; beggars stretching out their hands, displaying festering wounds; a ribbon vendor who gives them a ribbon each for their hair and refuses the coins Sophie offers him. ‘Take them for good luck,’ he insists, pinching her cheek. ‘For you and for me.’ A young man in livery spots the two servant girls; he tries to catch them by their arms and steal a kiss. Sophie is faster then he, eluding his grasp. But she is too fast for all of them: a Swiss guard in his red jacket; a fishmonger trying to frighten them with a live lobster; a baker in a white apron who stretches his hands to block their way past his stall. It is Diane who is kissed by a drunk soldier with a foul breath; who gets her dress smeared with something white and sticky.
It is Diane who then has to be rescued by her footman who puts on an act of an offended suitor, ready to fight for
his
girl.

In the servants’ dance hall, like all the palace ballrooms Sophie has been to, men sense her presence, note her every move. She draws them not just with her looks, not just with her unpinned raven black hair, the white skin of her neck, the radiance of her eyes, her full breasts showing under the thin dress. What makes men cast their eyes in their direction, for Diane makes sure she is at her friend’s side, is more important. The raw vitality that radiates from Sophie, from the way she dances, her head thrown back, her body whirling: this is what makes the men vie for a place beside her.

For a while there is nothing else in the world but the music, the hot, gyrating bodies, the singing, the laughter that comes from deep inside, the rubbing of skins, of hips. They clap their hands, accept treats of fried pork and glasses of diluted wine. They listen to promises of walks and ribbons, and evade the questions that try to pin them down, make them reveal too much. No one really believes the story of a maid and a milliner’s apprentice, but they are none the wiser. An insistent butcher who throws money around treating everyone to drinks, is told that Lou-Lou is a gypsy child, a runaway, and Flora, her friend, is the Polish mistress of a rich spice merchant. ‘Polish?’ the butcher says with a wink, pulling the skin under his right eye with his index finger. ‘How come she speaks French so well.’

There is more dancing and more bantering with suitors. More pork rinds and bread, more sweet cakes and wine. But Sophie is already getting restless. She casts furtive looks at the door, grows impatient with the butcher’s jokes.

‘Let’s go,’ she whispers into her friend’s ear.

Diane protests that they have not yet had enough; that the musicians are still playing; that it is still long before
dawn, and that she has lost sight of the footman who should escort them back. But Sophie shakes her head.

‘That’s the best time to leave.’

As they walk back, alone, through the empty Parisian street, having given their eager suitors the slip after a surfeit of promises, Sophie kicks off her shoes. Her arm encircling Diane’s waist, she is no longer impatient, no longer eager to put an end to the evening. With bursts of laughter, she recalls the highlights of their escapade. The butcher, half-drunk and sweaty, kneeling in front of her, begging her to marry him. She would never lack fresh meat, he said. She would have a house, an oak bed in her bedroom. She would have a servant girl. ‘I was tempted,’ Sophie laughs. ‘But I liked your sweetheart more.’

Diane gasps in mock horror, recalling a tall, thin youth with buck teeth who tried to lift her up in the air, staggering under her weight. He was from Provence, he said, a winemaker’s son. ‘You have class,’ he said. Diane had class and was wasting her time with her spice merchant. ‘Come with me to my father’s vineyard,’ he said.

‘Was that a proposal of marriage,’ Diane wonders aloud, ‘or just an invitation to a romp in the haystack?’

‘A romp in the haystack,’ Sophie declares with conviction. ‘But then, after you made him taste your delights, he would marry you, my dear. On his knees, in a small wooden church, his eyes blind to all that is not you.’

‘You must have been French in your previous life,’ Comte d’Artois whispers into her ear. ‘Where else could you have learnt the art of conversation that well.’

Princess de Lamballe leads them to the Queen. ‘A bore,’ Comte d’Artois whispers, his lips pursing in imitation of their guide. ‘Your Majesty cannot possibly do this … cannot possibly do that … It is my duty, Your Majesty … my obligation …’

‘Please, my dear Comte. We’ll be overheard.’

‘And then banished? Together forever: what a delightful prospect.’

Comte d’Artois doesn’t care what Princess de Lamballe thinks of him.

‘This is,’ he says, ‘what we have to put up with, at our own court.’ The shackles of etiquette bind him. Tradition and duty are suffocating him. ‘Dining in public,’ he says, ‘so that some chevalier from the provinces can boast to his Maman that he has seen Prince So and So or Comte So and So eat his consommé and, after hurrying to another chamber, still achieved the sight of Princess So and So tackling her dessert.’

The baby moves with such vigour that she has to catch her breath: a kick in her stomach, a stampede of tiny feet. ‘He will be strong,’ the midwife promised. ‘A boy. I can tell from how they kick.’

Her
interesting condition
is carefully hidden under the drapes of her best dress. White with marble pattern that sets off her black hair and luminous complexion. That makes her eyes seem even bigger and deeper.

‘Your first one?’ Princess de Lamballe asks gently, wistfully perhaps. A childless widow, still young, who can see through the drapes of her dress with a soft look of approval that does not include the King’s brother.

Sophie nods.

‘I’ve heard it said, that you disapprove of card games,’ the Princess says. ‘Isn’t that so, Comtesse de Witt.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Sophie says. ‘Far too boring. And I have heard that ladies ruin their dresses for their laps get blackened with gold and they are forced to change twice in one evening.’

The Queen is playing with her daughter,
Madame Royale
, when they approach. The girl lacks her mother’s grace
and her small face has a seriousness to it that seems excessive. ‘An old soul,’ Comte d’Artois whispers into her ear. ‘This is what they say, but I care little for old age, even in royal babies.’

Is she in love with him? Enough to make such moments tingle with pleasure. Enough to anticipate all stages of a romance: the seduction, consummation, and the inevitable parting.

She rewards the King’s brother with a smile and a touch of her fan. There is a lightness to him she finds irresistible: the impatience with whatever is boring or simply annoying, such as a merchant asking for his money for the wine long ago drunk and forgotten. He is like a spoilt child aware of his charm. He wants her to admire him. This is not difficult.

Ma belle Phanariote
, he calls her,
Ma plus belle Comtesse
. His hands touch her neck, lift her chin. At dinner tables his leg finds hers and travels up, ruining her scarlet stockings. But he is in no hurry, which Comtesse de Polignac tells her is a good sign. He is ready to wait for his pleasure.

His hands are soft and beautifully manicured. Every fingernail smooth and perfectly round. He walks with a slight hesitation, as if ready to bolt at the last minute, summoned by a more attractive alternative. She ran with him once, away from someone ‘exceedingly boring’, breathless, her baby crouching inside her, frozen with fear.

‘My dear beloved sister,’ Comte d’Artois says to the Queen of France. ‘Turn your pretty head toward your guest.’

Sophie curtsies. The Queen smiles seeing her totter, almost losing her balance. And they both burst out laughing for they are both with child, their bodies fighting the same obstacles to grace.

‘Comtesse de Witt, you have charmed one of my
brothers already,’ the Queen says, beckoning her closer. A cloud of scent hovers around her. An
effluvia
of wild roses. ‘Are you now claiming another one?’

Comte d’Artois frowns with pretend astonishment.

‘But, my dearest sister,’ he begins.

‘Your Majesty,’ Sophie interrupts him. ‘I’m already claimed by the creature who has all my heart and whom I have not yet seen. But only another woman in the same delicate condition can understand how I feel.’

Princess de Lamballe smiles with approval.

She came to like the musicians: the tall, skinny violinist who bowed when he saw her in the morning; the pianist who liked to twirl his reddish moustache; the flautist, a Frenchman whose crooked teeth were too long for his face, yet the gentlest smile.

The day before Rosalia overheard the flautist talk of his Italian journey. He had travelled for the whole summer with just half a dozen piastrs in his pocket. He set off each day not caring where his feet would take him, looking for nothing more than the boom of the church bells or a flock of lapwings, the delights of freedom. He could always find shelter in wayside caves or shrines where the saint would look upon him with warm understanding. When he took out his flute, the music that came to him was mixed with poetry, with memories, and the sights before him.

Today was the day the singer came. The Graf had brought her in his own carriage. A lady with translucent skin, and a fluidity that suggested betrayals. She demanded a chaise longue to sit on while she was not singing, a pitcher with spring water for her throat, a glass that had no fingerprints on it and another small table for her
scores. ‘Hortensia,’ Rosalia heard the Graf call her and saw how he squeezed her hand.

The musicians seemed unfazed by the singer’s demands and treated her with obvious reverence. The flautist called her Frau Hellmann and offered to move to make space for her.

The door to the grand salon opened with a squeak that made the countess flinch. Pietka, Rosalia thought, would have to be told to oil the hinges.

‘Good evening,’ Doctor Lafleur said.

She could sense his presence or even the approach of it. She already knew the rhythm of his steps, always somewhat hurried as if he wanted to catch up with someone ahead of him. There was something deliberate about his movements, and something resigned. He was hesitant at times. The way he held the countess’s wrist (like a porcelain bird), the gentle teasing of his questions (Only one glass of water? You do not listen to your doctor, Madame, but perhaps you are right).

Once he told her that the art of healing required observation and to be unobstructed, free from assumptions and judgement.

The countess tried to rise up, but the doctor stopped her. All he wanted was to stay here for a while. ‘If you’ll allow me, that is.’

‘To watch me,’ the countess asked.

‘You can say that.’

‘And what is it that you hope to see? How my illness is improving? I’m dying from sheer improvement, Monsieur le docteur. I can tell you that much myself.’

‘I’ve never doubted you could. And even if I dared to, Mademoiselle Rosalia would have put me in my place in no time. Wouldn’t you, Mademoiselle?’

‘I would,’ Rosalia said.

He sat in the leather armchair by the bed, crossed one leg over the other. From time to time he shook this leg, as if to wake it up. It moved her to notice how the fabric shone at the knees, stretched beyond its endurance. Austerity she thought. Refusal to indulge. Somewhere, already, she had begun hoarding moments, collecting, filing them in her memory for the future. She noted that he rarely smiled, but when he did, his whole face lit up and in it there was a glimpse of a boy he must have once been, a quick and curious boy with deft hands and bright eyes. She noted that fire attracted him, made him turn his face toward the flames. Catching the sight of his room, when it was being cleaned, his black jacket hanging on the chair she imagined him hanging it there and the very ordinariness of this gesture amazed her. She felt a quiver of pleasure at the thought, a pleasure that lasted for a long time.