Louisa Rawlings (2 page)

“The king will not miss
me.
And I shall be twice as attentive tomorrow, so he will snap his fingers and insist that I hand him his napkin. Which will earn me the right to snub the Duc de Saint-Simon for a whole week!”
 

Rouge laughed. “Yet you have given up your place with the king
today.
What do you hope to earn in return?”
 

He smiled, revealing even white teeth. “I’ve seen you from afar, Marie-Rouge de Tournières, and didn’t even know your name. And now you speak to me, you smile upon me. My joy is complete.”
 

“And you are content?”
 

“For today. Tomorrow I might ask for more!”
 

“And if I…refuse?”
 

“I should find it
fort mauvais
.”
 

She laughed again. “You’re a wicked man, monsieur. And I don’t even know
your
name.”
 

He bowed low, making a flourish with his tricorn so the plumes brushed the floor. “Comte Arsène Henri de Falconet. At your service, mademoiselle.”
 

“Monsieur.” She nodded, acknowledging his salute.
 

“How may I serve you, my charming creature? Will you come for a drive in my coach this afternoon?”
 

“Alas. My day is filled.”
 

“Supper, then. Tonight.”
 

Despite the size of Versailles, Rouge knew that most courtiers were allotted no more than a small room or two. Supper in such crowded quarters might turn out to be embarrassingly intimate. She smiled but asked cautiously, “In your bedchamber, here in the palace, monsieur?”
 

“Not at all, mademoiselle. I have a small
hôtel
besides, in the town just outside Versailles. I shall entertain you in my drawing room. Of course, perhaps later…?”
 

“But what if I’m a woman of virtue?”
 

“In this court? With that face and form?” Arsène laughed. “But if that’s how you wish the game to be played, you shall find me a gentleman at supper, asking for nothing save the sweetness of your presence.”
 

She giggled. “In this court?” she teased. “You wouldn’t even ask for a kiss? And you a brave cavalier?”

His black eyebrows knotted into a scowl. “Don’t mock me, mademoiselle! I told you I’ve watched you from afar. You’re a pretty coquette, and you break the hearts of all the men who traffic with you. But I don’t intend to be a passing admirer. I’ll play your game for now, but when the time comes, I’ll want more than just a kiss. Much more!”
 

Curse him! she thought. For a moment, she’d found him charming: more interesting, more worth encouraging than any man she’d met so far at Versailles. But she wasn’t about to give herself away for a few sweet words and supper! Her gray eyes were like cold steel. “Then sup alone, monsieur,” she said, and sped out of the hall, leaving him still frowning in consternation.
 

She moved quickly through several chambers, then up a small staircase until she came to the rooms of the Duc de Bleyle, one of the more powerful nobles at the court. She scratched delicately at the door with the nail of her little finger, as was considered polite at Versailles, and entered when she was bidden.
 

The Duc de Bleyle’s chamber was large and airy, its windows thrown wide to the bright day. Against one wall was a carved table, draped with a white cloth and laden with bowls of fruit and sweetmeats, and a large ewer of wine for the six men who sat playing cards about a large, round table in the center of the room.
 

Rouge nodded a greeting to the men, then sighed, turning her attention to her father. “Tintin, how can you still be at cards on such a pretty spring day? You’ve been here all morning. You’ve missed the king’s progress to his
petit couvert—
even
your
own
dinner, I warrant!”
 

Chrétien de Tournières looked up from his cards and smiled sheepishly at his daughter. At forty-five he was still a handsome man, with a reckless gleam in his eye and a roguish smile that played around the corners of his mouth. “Don’t scold me, Rouge. Not when I’m losing so badly at
brelan
.”
 

The Duc de Bleyle lifted a corner of his wig and scratched at his close-cropped head. “Now, Rouge. I haven’t let your father starve!” He smiled and gestured toward the food-laden sideboard.
 

Chrétien shook his head. “I’m sorry you reminded me of my lost dinner, Rouge. I’ve remembered that today my man was to order in my favorite dish—duck stuffed with truffles. And now, seeing I was not there to enjoy it, the lout will no doubt have polished off my meal himself!”
 

Rouge smiled thinly. “You have only yourself to blame, Tintin. You
will
play at cards…”
 

Her father swore under his breath and threw down his hand, frowning as one of the other men gathered in a stack of silver and gold coins. “I am cursed today, damned if I’m not!” He looked up at Rouge, his expression softening with love. “But you had dinner sent in, my child,
n’est-ce pas
? You found the money I left for you this morning?”
 

“Of course, Tintin.” As the cards were dealt again, Rouge crossed to her father, leaning over to kiss him tenderly on the cheek. She watched for a moment as he scooped up his cards, then wandered to the sideboard and picked out an orange, peeling it slowly as she followed the progress of the game. She ate the orange, then helped herself to a glass of wine, smiling and chatting with the other players—all of whom she’d met before—as the hands were dealt and played.
 

The Duc de Bleyle seemed to be winning a great deal today. And, to judge by the rapidly decreasing pile of coins in front of Tintin, he seemed to be the major loser, though a fat marquis in wine velvet was not finding the cards much to his liking, either.
“Merde!”
he swore, as Bleyle triumphed once again. “You were never good at
brelan
before. You must be learning from the Duc de Chartres. He can scarcely lose at this game.”
 

Bleyle shrugged. “I hardly know the king’s nephew. And I haven’t seen him for weeks.”
 

“But surely you’re mistaken! I saw you only yesterday, coming out of his
appartement.
I remember his hand was on your shoulder and he was speaking with great heat. I remember it most distinctly because he usually makes such a show of looking bored.”
 

De Bleyle bristled. “You must be mistaken, sir. It was not I.”
 

“But…surely…”
 

“Not I! I scarcely know the man!”
 

Cowed, the fat marquis stammered an apology. “I…I have no doubt I was mistaken.”
 

Très curieux
, thought Rouge. What a peculiar exchange! For she herself had seen the two of them together only a day or two ago, whispering in a dim recess near the Princes’ Stairway. Well, it was none of her concern. She glanced across the table to her father. He was smiling as he perused his hand, but his fingers had begun to play with the few remaining coins before him. And when he looked up at her, his soft brown eyes held a silent plea. She frowned in annoyance and passed around the table toward the sideboard, allowing herself a discreet peek at Bleyle’s cards. “This is your last hand, Tintin. The tailor awaits you, and I myself have a tête-à-tête at three. I shall eat one more small plum, and the moment I’m through I shall drag you away with me.”
 

Chrétien grumbled. “’Tis worse than having a wife, to have a daughter who bedevils a man!”
 

The marquis laughed. “But with a daughter as beautiful as Rouge… A tête-à-tête, you say? Take care, Chrétien, lest you become a grandfather before you know it!”
 

“The last hand,” admonished Rouge, biting into the succulent plum. The red juice stained her lips. With a slow and deliberate movement she lifted three fingers to her mouth and dabbed away the moisture.
 

Her father seemed not to notice the gesture, but he immediately discarded and picked several fresh cards from the pile. His face lighted up in relief. “I have you now,
mes amis
,” he said, fanning his cards out on the table. “Best this if you can!”
 

“Merde!”
The Duc de Bleyle threw down his hand in disgust; the other players shook their heads ruefully and allowed Rouge’s father to collect his winnings.
 

“Surely another hand, Chrétien… You must allow us to recoup!”
 

“No!” Rouge insisted. “If I’m late for my assignation because of Tintin and his tailor, I shall hold the lot of you to account! Come, Tintin!”
 

Chrétien de Tournières stood up, pocketing his coins. He sighed, a man under siege. “Another time, my friends. What am I to do?”
 

As Rouge and her father silently made their way down a long corridor toward their own rooms, they met a procession of chefs and footmen, still bearing dishes for the king’s table from the kitchens to his chamber. Louis was a prodigious eater, and his
petit couvert
could go on for hours. In the custom of Versailles, Rouge and her father stopped to let the food pass, while Chrétien doffed his plumed hat, bowed, and gave the proper salute to the royal meal. “The king’s meat,” he said solemnly.
 

The smell of the succulent food was maddening to Rouge. Hands on hips, she turned to her father. “Duck with truffles, you said! And where is the money you left for my dinner?”
 

Tournières smiled crookedly. “I thought it a rather good story.”
 

“And what are we to do for supper? The king does not hold an
appartement
this evening. There’ll be no free refreshments. Did you manage to get Cousin Desportes to invite us to his
hôtel
?”
 

“No. Alas. He’s off to Paris. What about you?”
 

Rouge sighed. “For a moment, I thought I might win the king’s favor, but…”

“But…?”
 

She sighed again. “I’m afraid I did not handle the opportunity well.” She put a hand to her stomach. “Oh, Tintin, what
shall
we do for supper? I’m starving! Except for our meager breakfast, the Duc de Bleyle’s wine and fruit were all the food I had today! I met Clarisse de Beaucastel at noon. Had it been an hour earlier, I might have managed to dine with her. I nearly contrived to win an invitation. But she’d just come from her table, so all my machinations went for naught!”
 

Tournières began to laugh. “Surely we’re the most artful foragers of free meals at Versailles! If the courtiers had the wit to realize, they’d have identified us as
cherche-midi.
But fortunately, we have not the desperation about the eyes that those who live on the kindness of others usually have.”
 

“That still doesn’t settle the matter of our supper. Did you win enough in that last hand to buy us supper at a tavern?”
 

“Not if I want my suit from the tailor. He’s refused to extend me another franc in credit. My winnings could content him.”
 

Rouge laughed in spite of herself. “Oh, Tintin! What would you have done had I not revealed de Bleyle’s hand to you with my signal?”
 

Tournières stopped and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. “I should have played my hand as it stood, and lost to Bleyle! And tomorrow I’d have tried my luck again.”
 

“I hate cheating for you, you know.”
 

He smiled again. “But you do it so well. As for food…” He reached into an inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a large apple and a thick slice of bread. “Bleyle is a most generous host. More than he imagines. This should see you through to supper.”
 

Rouge looked skeptical. “And then?”
 

“And then…there’s a charming maid of the second kitchen whom I’ve been cultivating. She’s promised to bring us a feast whenever I ask it of her.” He jingled the coins in his pocket. “As long as she’s agreeable, I’ll ask tonight. No sense in spending money that’s been promised elsewhere!”
 

“And the cost of our supper?” she asked, munching hungrily on the food that Tintin had given her.
 

“Don’t fret. I shall pay for it—in my own way. You have but to enjoy it!”
 

Rouge clucked her tongue. “You’re a wicked rogue, Tintin. God knows I should be angry with you! When you’re not adventuring with the ladies, you’re gambling away every sol we own.”
 

Chrétien de Tournières looked shamefaced, but his brown eyes were filled with laughter. “Am I to have my lecture now?”
 

They had come to the narrow staircase that led up to the cramped attics in which the less favored at Versailles were quartered. Someone obviously had been taken unawares at some distance from his chamber pot; the stairway reeked with the stench of human excrement.
Dieu!
thought Rouge. How could Tintin prefer this to the sweetness of life at Sans-Souci? She sighed in helpless frustration. “You promised in January. It was the new year. The new
century.
Seventeen hundred. And you promised to turn over a new leaf! And then you could not even wait for the snows to melt before you were back again in this wicked place.”