Louisa Rawlings (3 page)

“You don’t have to be here, Rouge. Go home.”
 

“And leave you at the mercy of your weaknesses?”
 

“You sound like your mother.” He smiled sheepishly. “Am I such a trial to you?”
 

“No more than you were to her.” They emerged from the staircase and moved down the passageway to their rooms. It was dim and cold up here under the eaves. The March sun that warmed the elegant rooms of the high-ranking lords like Bleyle scarcely penetrated the few small windows of the attic story. Rouge shivered, as much from apprehension as from cold. Oh,
Maman
, she thought, what a burden you have left me! Her mother’s dying words had been, “Take care of your father, Marie-Rouge. He’s such a child.” But such a dear child, in spite of his weaknesses. Or perhaps because of them. She could only pray that with God’s help she could keep them both from ruin and bankruptcy.
 

Tintin glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Such a short lecture. You must truly be angry with me.”
 

How could she be? Rouge thought as she searched his sweet face. Because he hadn’t learned that the world was hard? That it wasn’t all lightheartedness and reckless joy? No. It was easier for
her
to bend: to learn to live by her wits in this palace of shallow pleasures, playing all manner of coquettish games with leering, fawning courtiers. To endure the boredom, the endless hours of waiting for a glimpse of the king, for a word or two with some ranking noble that might lead to a pension, or entrée into a more exalted circle. To help her father cheat at cards, to wheedle their meals… She sighed. But she did it all. Because she loved him.
 

She smiled a rueful smile. “And if I
were
angry with you, would it teach you to mend your ways?”
 

“Monsieur le marquis!” A young boy with a shock of golden hair came hurrying down the corridor toward them. He was perhaps twelve or thirteen. His eyes were wide and filled with terror. “’Tis Monsieur Lorgues, the tailor!” he cried. “He’s in a fury! Oh, come quickly, monsieur! He says he’ll put you in debtor’s prison… He’ll see you hang, he says! Oh, he’s a villain!”
 

“Where is he, François?”
 

“In your chamber, monsieur. Tearing at your clothes like a madman!”
 

“
Dommage!
Quickly, Rouge. Come along.” Together, Rouge and Tintin raced down the passageway, following François, her father’s servant, who had begun to whimper. “I tried to keep him out until your return, but he boxed my ears, monsieur, and then…”
 

“Oh, the damnable prick-louse,” muttered Chrétien. “Never mind, boy. Never mind. I’ll give you a sol to buy a sweetmeat.”
 

They burst into the room to find a red-faced little man making havoc with its contents. He had pulled down the worn and dusty bed curtains of Tintin’s bed, upended François’ little folding cot, and was now digging furiously into Tintin’s brass-bound trunk, tossing clothing to left and right. He looked up as they entered, wild eyes bulging in his face. “There you are, Tournières!” he squeaked. “You rogue! Son of a dog! Kin to a mountebank!”
 

Chrétien smiled mildly, but his eyes were cold. “What seems to be amiss, Monsieur Lorgues, that you make so free with my belongings?”
 

His finger poking the air, Lorgues pointed at Rouge’s father. “There, and there and there! You dare to wear
that
coat,
that
waistcoat,
those
breeches—when they are not yet paid for?” He whirled about and indicated a half-finished suit of Chinese-red brocade that he had just pulled from the trunk. “And then to order a
new
suit for Monseigneur’s festivities…oh, the impudence! I trusted you, monsieur! You came to me, trading on your cousin Desportes’s name for credit. And every time I send you a bill, you have another story for me! Must I then shame you by collecting from your patron Desportes?”
 

“You will surely die of apoplexy, Monsieur Lorgues. But then perhaps your fits of temper—alas, my friend!—have already weakened your brain. Else you would surely recall that I promised to pay you all that I owed you this very day!”
 

“I remember no such thing,” growled Lorgues.
 

Tintin looked astonished. “Then you don’t remember that I also promised you an extra two louis d’or for your patience! Fortunately for you, I am honest enough to recall it to your mind.”
 

Lorgues began to smile, the redness of his face subsiding. “An extra eight crowns! Ah, yes! Of course I remember now.”
 

“Good! Then if you will be so kind as to finish the fitting of the red brocade…we can settle our accounts afterward.”
 

The happy prospect of the extra coins he was to pocket transformed Lorgues. All the while he marked and pinned the garment he kept up a stream of chatter, swearing that he had misjudged Tournières, who was surely a generous and kind patron, a man of noble spirit. Rouge offered suggestions from time to time—a bit of braid here, a
cocarde
of ribbon there—while François bustled about the room, making order of the chaos.
 

At last the fitting was done. As Tintin changed into the suit he had worn before, Monsieur Lorgues turned to Rouge. “And you, mademoiselle, daughter to this most noble gentleman…it would be my honor to serve you,” he purred. “I am a fine tailor of stays for ladies. And my wife is a skilled mantua maker. I have no doubt she could fashion you a most handsome
grand habit
, or a becoming
robe de chambre
for your leisure hours. Something in pale rose, perhaps, to accent your fine coloring.”
 

“How kind of you, Monsieur Lorgues. I shall consider it. When I’ve decided what I should like, you will most certainly get my trade.”
 

Lorgues rubbed his hands together in anticipation of further business. “When you’re ready, Mademoiselle de Tournières, you have only to send your maid around to my shop in town.”
 

“Of course.” Rouge smiled, her face betraying nothing.
Her maid.
Name of God! What would he think were he to know that she had been unable to bring her maid Emilie to Versailles because the cost of the public coach was too great? All the time they had been here, she had pretended to be expecting the girl at any moment; between François’ help, and the occasional palace maid who was pleased to help her, she was served well enough. To ease her conscience, in lieu of payment she managed to give little gifts to the maids—a lace handkerchief, a length of silk ribbon, a pair of gloves. She could hardly spare them out of her own meager wardrobe, but it couldn’t be helped.
 

Monsieur Lorgues carefully folded the half-finished suit over one arm, pulled his bill from his pocket, and turned to Tintin. His friendly manner had become a smirking obsequiousness. “Now, monsieur le marquis, if you would care to settle your accounts… The suit you are wearing—a handsome plush, if I do say so myself!—is fifteen louis. The new one is twenty. That will be thirty-five gold louis, not…ahem…not counting the two extra louis I was promised for my pains.” He laughed nervously. “I do confess it now, monsieur. I
had
forgot you promised it to me. Thanks be to your honesty!” He crossed himself piously. “I should never have remembered it. My wife says I’ve become as forgetful as an old woman.”
 

Tintin shook his head. “Pish tush! You’re a splendid fellow and a superb tailor, may I be cursed if you’re not.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “Here you are, my good man. Seventeen louis.”
 

“
Seventeen
, monsieur?”
 

“Yes. Fifteen for the plush, and two as the tip I promised you. I keep my word, monsieur.”
 

“But…but you said you’d pay it all!”
 

“Surely you misunderstood. I said I’d pay you all I
owed.
I shan’t owe you the twenty louis until the new suit is finished.”
 

Lorgues’s face had begun to purple again. “Rogue! Liar!”
 

Tintin looked pained. “But you agreed, monsieur! Not half an hour ago! Is it not so, Rouge?”
 

It was all Rouge could do to keep a straight face. For surely Tintin was a master of devilment! The fiction of the promised tip—to mollify Lorgues, and now the game (that she was expected to abet) to keep from paying for the red brocade until it was absolutely necessary. She nodded earnestly. “Yes, Monsieur Lorgues. I heard you agree. With my own ears.” She sighed. “Alas! Your poor memory. You must not tell your wife how you are failing. It would distress her so.”
 

The tailor looked confused, glancing from one solemn face to the other. “Is it so? Truly?
Mon Dieu
!”
He pulled out a large handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Very well. Twenty louis d’or when the suit is delivered.” He bowed in salute. “Your servant, monsieur le marquis.”
 

“A moment,” said Tournières. Rouge was familiar enough with her father’s voice to recognize the hard edge that had crept in. “There’s one more matter to be settled. You boxed my servant’s ears. He’s a gentle lad, not deserving of such treatment.” He raised his hand, stilling Lorgues’s protest. “I have assured the boy that you will make amends. A sol or two for a sweetmeat should cheer him. If you please…”
 

Lorgues hesitated, then shrugged. He fished out a small copper coin and tossed it to François, who bit it skeptically and beamed. “Here you are,
mon gars
,” said Lorgues with a magnanimous wave of the hand.
 

“And now, you will beg the boy’s pardon.” Tintin’s voice had become colder still.
 

“Eh? What? Not I, monsieur!”
 

Tournières continued to smile. “My sword arm has not lost its skill, you fat pig. You will beg the boy’s pardon, or they will be making salt pork of your hide.”
 

Lorgues began to stammer. “I…I meant no harm, you understand.”
 

“His pardon.”
 

Trembling, the tailor nodded. “You will please to forgive me, boy.” He was out the door before François had even acknowledged the apology.
 

Chrétien began to laugh. “Now, let us hope he doesn’t decide to stitch the legs of my breeches together!”
 

Rouge giggled. “You improvise a wicked tale, Tintin! You will have him believing that day is night! But the red brocade looks wonderful. It suits you to a hair. The king himself will admire you, I have no doubt.”
 

“’Tis a pity you return to Sans-Souci this week. Monseigneur’s fête promises to be a merry affair, with plays and music, good food and wine.”
 

“It’s all for the best, Tintin, I…
Damn!
I’d quite forgot!”
 

“Now, plague take me, it
must
be serious, if you begin to blaspheme!”
 

“I
can’t
go home before the party! Like a fool I told the king that I wished to retire to Sans-Souci within the week. He flew into a rage and commanded my attendance at the fête.”
 

“It isn’t wise to anger the king.” Chrétien shrugged. “Well, after all, what does it matter? An extra week or so…”

With a despairing look, Rouge spread the skirts of her green gown. “It isn’t the
time.
I have nothing to wear! This is my only court dress, and the king expects everyone to appear in new clothes. And only look…!” She pulled off her decorative apron, revealing a large worn patch on the petticoat beneath. “It was all Emilie and I could do to fashion this gown from
Maman
’s outmoded one that we found rotting in the attic. And now I must manage to secure
another
gown?”
 

Tournières held out the last of his winnings. “Take what I have. Monsieur Lorgues can wait a few more days.”
 

Rouge smiled indulgently at her father and patted his cheek with tender fingers. “God bless you, Tintin. But it’s not nearly enough. And besides, it’s such an extravagance, a new gown. I’d rather spend the money—if we had it—to fix the roof over the east pavilion at Sans-Souci.” She frowned, thinking. “I’ll take four louis from you. No more. I think I can get a
couturière
to make me a new petticoat in a different fabric—pink satin, quilted perhaps, would be handsome. And then some pink braid along the edges of the turned-back skirt, a few pink bows… Yes. It can be done.”
 

Chrétien sighed. “I’m sorry there isn’t more for you.”
 

“If you could stop gambling, Tintin. Just for a little. Until the harvest, at the least. There should be money coming in from your tenants. Doesn’t Baptiste owe you a great deal, from last year?”
 

“Not any more. I forgave the debt.” Chrétien looked sheepish. “But what could I do? His wife was so ill. And Baptiste’s meager owings would scarcely be enough to satisfy that bloodsucking moneylender in Paris who’s holding my note.”
 

“Is he pressing you for payment?”
 

“No. But he keeps adding interest, until I vow it will take a king’s ransom to pay him back!”