Louisa Rawlings (32 page)

“Perhaps the curé could speak on Barnabé’s behalf.”
 

“Pooh! He’s more concerned with class than Papa is!”
 

“But the old man in Vendôme is only a bourgeois banker, is it not so?”
 

“But very rich, and very important in town. Papa says he intends to buy an office that will confer nobility.” She straightened her shoulders and stood tall and strong, her dark eyes filled with pride. “No. I’m not a child anymore. I’m a woman. Barnabé has made me so. It’s for me to tell my father.”
 

Rouge bit her lip. Ruffec might listen to the daughter of the Marquis de Tournières, if she revealed herself to him. “Perhaps I could speak to him, Angélique.”
 

“No! It’s my burden. I’ll do it.” She hesitated, a look of fear passing over her face. “In good time. Now let us find Papa.”
 

They found Ruffec in the tooth drawer’s chair, his head thrown back and lolling to one side, his eyes (when he opened them to Angélique’s timid greeting) unfocused and filled with pain. There was a small dribble of blood on his chin.
 

“Name of God,” said Rouge, “what have you done to the man?”
 

“All that was prescribed, mademoiselle,” said the tooth drawer, obviously pleased with himself. “I’m a man of science, with only the latest of cures. At the first, I started with cotton wool soaked in spirits of nicotine. A worthy cure, and one that brought monsieur le baron some relief—though the king himself, I am told, swears by essence of cloves.”
 

“You don’t say!” exclaimed Rouge.
 

The tooth drawer was warming to his recitation and the two charming young women who seemed so eager for every detail. “I saw, upon further examination, however, that the tooth couldn’t be saved. There was nothing for it but to have it out!”
 

“Poor Papa.” Angélique patted her father’s hand.
 

“Ah! Easier said than done, mademoiselle. Though I’m a strong man, and I had the help of two burly farmers to hold monsieur down, the tooth refused to yield to my instruments.”
 

“Alas!” said Rouge, feigning dismay. “Then what’s to be done?”
 

The tooth drawer smiled. “Fear not! Did I not tell you I was versed in the sciences? There is a cure, very new but quite infallible, I’m led to believe. Last week, foreseeing this very circumstance, I had taken the care to boil, then reduce to ashes some earthworms, leaving a powder of the finest quality. After chipping a hole into the center of what remains of monsieur’s tooth, I filled it with this powder and sealed it in with melted wax. I can assure you that the tooth will soon fall out. To ease the pain, I’ve just this minute bled him. A good full cup. As soon as he has got his strength back, mademoiselle, you should take him home. I will, by your leave, monsieur, send my bill around in the morning.”
 

Ruffec grunted and clamped his hand cruelly around Angélique’s thin wrist. She winced. “I’ve sent for the horse litter,” he mumbled. “Because you were not about. Where the devil were you?”
 

Curse the villain! thought Rouge. Even in this extreme condition he couldn’t forbear giving Angélique pain and grief! God knows she hadn’t wished for his misery, only for his daughter’s freedom; now she found herself almost glad for the agonies he’d no doubt endured this afternoon.
 

“Oh, Papa. I could not bear to watch your suffering. I waited, just out of sight and hearing, all the afternoon. I feared your cries of pain would tear my heart.”
 

“The poor child must have almost swooned,” said Rouge smoothly. “I found her down the street just a little while ago. She trembled and wept and clung to me.”
 

Ruffec twisted Angélique’s hand so she grimaced in pain. “Is that true?”
 

“As God is above, Papa,” she whispered. “Yes.”
 

Amen, thought Rouge.
 

Pierre was sitting beneath the elm tree, a mug of ale in his hand, when Rouge went looking for him. He raised his cup in a mocking toast. “To you, lady of Versailles,” he said bitterly. “Each time I think I understand you, you confound me once again. Forgive me, it’s only humble
country
ale.”
 

“Don’t be a fool, Pierre,” she said gently, dropping down on the bench beside him. “The man had a dagger in his coat.”
 

“I saw it.”
 

She shook her head. “Surely you didn’t intend to fight! Not over a dance!”
 

His mouth curled with sarcasm. “Nor over a woman, God rot!”
 

Her heart skipped a beat. How could she have been so blind? “You would have fought for
me
?” she asked softly.
 

He shrugged. “Misplaced chivalry, I see now. I watched you dancing your court dance. It suited you to be with that fop.” He scowled and took another swallow of his ale. “What the devil are you doing here where you don’t belong?” he growled.
 

That was unfair! “Am I suddenly to be a stranger because I enjoyed the gavotte? Damn you, miller!” Angrily she snatched the cup from him and drained the rest of the ale at one gulp. Too late she realized the foolishness of her bravado. The ale burned into her empty belly. “Damn you,” she said again, grimacing and wrapping her arms around herself. “I’ll probably be sick!”
 

He stared, then began to laugh. “You’re hungry again!”
 

“Of course I am!” she said petulantly. “I haven’t eaten since before the dancing began.”
 

“Come on.” He jumped up and pulled her to her feet. “They’ll light the bonfire in another hour or so, when the sun goes down. That should be time enough—even for you!—to fill that bottomless pit!”
 

Smiling, she followed him to the tavern. But a nagging, and wondrous, thought dogged her.
Had
he been jealous? Oh, Egypt, did he care enough to feel jealousy? She put her hand on his arm. “Pierre.
Would
you have fought him for me?”
 

“No,” he said solemnly. Then he grinned, the devil peeping out of his green eyes. “I should merely have broken his arm before he could pull out his knife!”
 

“Buffoon!” A lighthearted answer, and surely not what she had hoped to hear. The amulet was clearly mocking her. “Shall we eat?”
 

They laughed together over supper, but it was forced laughter. In some strange way that Rouge couldn’t fathom, the episode with the nobleman had muted Pierre’s high spirits, cast a pall over their bright day. She yearned to talk quietly to him, to apologize if her behavior had hurt his pride. But the tavern was now crowded with noisy, drunken revelers, shrieking and calling out to one another. She looked across the table, seeing the distant look in his eyes. And all because of a dance with a stranger—a stranger whose name she didn’t even know.
 

Ciel!
But he knew
her
name! She jumped up in alarm as someone shouted out that the coach was leaving. Mother of God, she must speak to the man!
 

Pierre grabbed her arm. “Rouge! Stay.”
 

“I can’t!” She glanced wildly toward the door and shook free of his hand. “Please, Pierre…” Ignoring the look of accusation in his eyes, she raced out of the tavern.
 

She pushed impatiently through the square, crowded again as the farmers and merchants packed up their goods for the night and moved their carts and wagons to the shelter of rented sheds. She saw the public coach at last; the driver was perched on his box, his whip poised above his head. “Wait!” she cried. “A moment, please, monsieur! A word or two with a passenger.” He grumbled, but nodded assent. It was now growing quite dim. She peered in at the open window of the coach, straining her eyes against the gloom, until she caught sight of the red velvet. “Monsieur.” She beckoned to him. The nobleman leaned forward to the window. “I beg you,” she said urgently, “not to speak of me, nor mention my name when you leave here. Particularly not in Versailles.”
 

Even in the dim light she could see the knowing leer on his face. “Do you hide from a
galant
, mademoiselle? From the envy of court wives? While you amuse yourself with country pleasures and country
men
?”
 

She ignored the insinuation, biting back the sharp reply on her tongue. It might be better if he thought her merely a frivolous courtesan. She smiled coyly. “Will you not keep a woman’s secret? As a brave cavalier?”
 

“Only for the kiss denied me before.” He beamed, enjoying his mastery over her.
 

She hesitated, then nodded. He slipped his hand about her neck and pulled her head toward his mouth. His kiss was hard and demanding; she fought the urge to push him away, reminding herself that a kiss—however unpleasant—was far preferable to Arsène bearing down on Selommes and spiriting her away!
 

She hurried back to the Red Bull and Pierre. He was sitting at the table where she’d left him, his head in his hands. The tavern was deserted, the host having joined the merry revelers at a bonfire they had built. She moved toward him. “Pierre?”
 

He looked up, then rose unsteadily to his feet. His face, despite the tan, appeared pale, and his eyes were dark and filled with pain. He stared at her for a long time, then “I thought you’d decided to go with him,” he said at last. “That you were tired of us. Of me.”
 

“Foolish man,” she said tenderly, surprised and moved by his concern. “Why should I go with him?”
 

For the first time since she’d known him, he seemed unsure of himself. “Because he’s your kind. Because you’ll be glad to be back at Versailles, in a life that suits you, with more jolly companions than an old cat and a man who likes his solitude.”
 

She felt herself beginning to weep. She bit her lip, blinking back the tears that trembled on her lashes. “Don’t you know how I’ll grieve to say good-bye to these happy days?” she whispered. “And how could I go without telling you? That would be too cruel.”
 

“But…but that popinjay, and the coach…” he stammered.
 

“He recognized me. I didn’t know the man, but he’d seen
me
at court. I was suddenly afraid he’d tell someone, and the news would reach Arsène. I had to be sure he’d keep silent. That’s why I went to find him.”
 

He exhaled and smiled his relief, the color returning to his face. He gazed at her, soft green eyes warming her like an embrace. A shout of laughter drifted in from the open door. The fiddler struck up a fresh tune. Pierre held out his hand. “Dance with me.”
 

He led her out to the bonfire. She felt enchanted anew, floating with the steps of the dance, thrilling to the touch of his hands and the feel of his body each time he swung her around or held her more closely than the dance warranted. It was gypsy magic, and she blessed the old woman from the bottom of her heart. The bonfire lit his laughing face, the smile lines around his mouth.
 

His mouth. Oh, Egypt, she thought. Just one more wish to make her happiness complete on this perfect day! Only a kiss. That dear mouth on hers.
 

“You slut! Damned whore!”
 

Rouge whirled about to see Jacquelan standing near the fountain, a small bucket in her hands. At her shrill curse, the fiddler had stopped playing, and the dancers had moved back in the clearing, sensing trouble. Jacquelan swaggered toward them.
 

“Go home to your husband, Madame Billot,” said Pierre quietly.
 

She turned to him with a sneer. “Keep out of this. I have no quarrel with you. You’ll come back to my bed when it suits you. But this pretty little thing, this
grande putain
, this great whore, who makes eyes at all the men and lets the schoolboys play with her…” She raised the bucket in her hands. “Here,
madame l’impudente
! For your filthy carcass!”
 

Rouge jumped back just in time to avoid a complete dousing, but the water soaked her shoes and feet. “You jealous hussy!” she said indignantly, and slapped Jacquelan across the face as hard as she could.
 

Jacquelan shrieked and dropped the bucket. She reached out and tore the crown of flowers from Rouge’s head, managing to uproot more than a few silvery strands. “Queen of the May!” she said contemptuously. “Say rather queen of the
streets
!”
 

Beside Rouge, Pierre let out a low growl. “Now, Jacquelan, by God…”
 

Rouge’s scalp stung from the torn hair, and her pretty crown of flowers lay trampled in the dust. She was overcome with anger, fury at this creature who had tried to spoil her day. Well, she wouldn’t call on Cleopatra now, by heaven! She needed no magic spell to put an end to this witch’s effrontery! She glared at Pierre. “Leave her to me!” She snatched at Jacquelan’s head, tangling both hands in the dark curls, and tugged with all her might. Jacquelan squeaked in pain. “Now, madame-who-shames-her-husband,” cried Rouge, “you’ll torment me no more!”