Louisa Rawlings (44 page)

“Do you take me for a fool? Your interest in him was writ clear on your face at once. Did you lie with him ever? That poor excuse for a man?”
 

She raised a contemptuous eyebrow. “It would take you a lifetime to be half the man he is.”
 

“Did you lie with him?”
he repeated.
 

“And if I were to say yes?”
 

“Why then, damn the lout,” he said sullenly. “I’m sorry he didn’t get a proper whipping—as he deserved!”
 

She stared at him. “What a mean and spiteful man you are, Girard.”
 

He bristled at that. “I’m not completely unreasonable! Once we’re married, I’d be willing to look the other way if you wished to have a dalliance or two. I should expect the same consideration from you. It’s done all the time, I’m given to understand. And it would be even more fortuitous if you could form liaisons that were useful for my advancement at Versailles.” He sniffed in disdain. “But not with a
peasant
, Rouge!”
 

“And if I choose the right lover, they might gossip about it in the
Mercure Galant.
Would that please you?” she said sarcastically.
 

He smiled, deaf to her tone. “Oh, very much!”
 

“Now, by my faith, you’re not a man. You’re a silly, vain, mean-spirited
child
!”
 

His face turned red. “I’m the man you’re going to marry!” he sputtered.
 

She laughed. “I’d have to be mad to marry you. You…mustard seed!”
 

“But you accepted my token,” he said, bewildered.
 

“I give it back. Here.” She reached up to her shoulder, unfastened the brooch, and threw it across the stable. It landed near the pile of manure.
 

Girard frowned and crossed gingerly to retrieve it. He tossed back the ruffles of his sleeves and leaned over to pick up the brooch, his fingers poised delicately above it to avoid touching the floor.
 

Rouge looked at him, remembering the sight of Pierre’s back, striped with bloody welts. And the shame he must have felt, as a proud man. The bile rose in her throat, an anger against this little boy who could be so carelessly cruel. She marched over to Girard, set her foot at his backside, and kicked him headlong into the pile of manure.
 

Ignoring his howls of outrage, the cries to his servants, she hurried to her rooms. Brusquely she announced to Emilie that they were leaving at once, and the girl was to pack and see that the carriage was made ready.
 

Emilie smiled with pleasure. “I’m glad, mademoiselle. I don’t like this place. Nor monsieur le marquis. Did you see the man they whipped? It was horrible! All the servants say that Monsieur de Saint-Esprit is not a good man. Cruel, they say. Can you imagine? You wouldn’t think it to see that schoolboy face, but that’s what they say.” She shook her head. “That poor man. To be whipped like a dog in front of everyone! Why should they do such a thing?”
 

Her grief and guilt overwhelmed her. She sank into a chair, burying her face in her hands. “He had the misfortune to love me,” she sobbed.
 

Chapter Ten

“You look so sad, mademoiselle. How can you look sad, when we’re going to Versailles?”
 

Rouge smiled across at Emilie. “You won’t be sorry, will you?”
 

“Oh, indeed, no! Look at us, in this beautiful coach, and you with your new clothes and a fat purse! And that wonderful château! I was sorry to be left behind at Sans-Souci the last time you and monsieur went to Versailles! I hadn’t forgot the first visit we made, in the winter, you and I.”
 

Rouge laughed. “Not to mention how you missed the handsome porters of the blue chairs!” She was referring to the fleet of lackeys in blue livery who carried the courtiers about the grounds of Versailles. The last time she and Tintin had been there—in the spring—they had walked to the gardens, for the want of tips to the porters.
 

Emilie blushed. “I shall be happy to see them, too.”
 

“How I envy you. While I’m sitting at mass, under the king’s watchful eye, or longing for a seat in some antechamber, or spending tedious hours in the boredom of an
appartement
, you’ll be laughing and playing blindman’s buff in a kitchen garden!”
 

“Then why do we go to Versailles? More especially since monsieur le marquis is staying at home?”
 

Why, indeed! thought Rouge. She’d be happily at Sans-Souci herself, but for Torcy’s threatening letter, sent under Albret de Montigny’s seal. He had raged and stormed, reminding her that she had been expected in the middle of May. And here it was, already June! Did Mademoiselle de Tournières fancy a life in prison? The brand of thief upon her forehead? They had an agreement; he expected her to honor it. She had written him a conciliatory letter, filled with lies about an imaginary illness, the death of a beloved servant, a sudden emergency at Sans-Souci; then she had issued orders to Emilie to pack with all haste for Versailles.
 

Surprisingly, Tintin hadn’t wanted to come to Versailles. He had bought himself a fine horse and had taken to riding about the countryside; one of those rides had unearthed the presence, just beyond Montoire, of a very rich jeweler—newly come to town from Tours—and his two nubile daughters. The man had bought himself a small estate, attached the title “sieur” to his name, and was busy making himself known in the parish. Tintin guessed he’d be occupied for most of the summer, entertaining the new arrivals.
 

He’d been surprised, of course, that
she
had wanted to go to court. But she’d told him the story of Girard and the horse manure (carefully avoiding mention of Pierre); after he’d stopped laughing, Tintin had agreed that it was wise to leave the region for a while, at least until Girard had calmed down. And then, Rouge had added, since Saint-Esprit had proved to be such an unworthy suitor, it seemed sensible to find out if Arsène de Falconet still had an interest in her. She reassured him that, after her recent disaster with Girard, she wasn’t going to rush into a marriage with Arsène, or anyone else, before she wrote to Tintin and sought his advice.
 

Her father had seen them off in the coach, insisting that—now that he had a proper mount—they could keep the carriage at Versailles for as long as they were there. Rouge found herself grateful to Nathalie’s brother. Thanks to his generosity, there would be no need to intrigue for their meals, and the coachman and lackey could be comfortably boarded in the town of Versailles. Rouge was still thrifty, but it
was nice not to worry about money for a change. Except, of course, for Tintin’s 125,000-livre debt!
 

Their usual rooms in the attic at Versailles were as inhospitable as ever, but now, with summer on the way, they were too hot rather than too cold. Rouge supervised the unpacking of her boxes, pleased at last to be able to give a few sols to the chambermaids, and waited for Torcy’s summons. It was not long in coming, in the form of an invitation to sup from Albret de Montigny.
 

Torcy paced the floor and fumed for the first quarter of an hour, chiding her for her tardiness in returning to Versailles and repeating his threats against Tintin; Rouge ignored him, enjoying the pleasures of Albret de Montigny’s table. There was no point in arguing with Torcy. She was in his power, and they both knew it. At last he sighed and sat down opposite her.
 

She smiled. “Have a bit of this roast veal, monsieur. It’s quite good.”
 

He laughed ruefully. “You have poise, mademoiselle. I’ll grant you that! I knew I’d chosen well, with you.
Eh, bien.
To business. We’ve spoken, I think, about Charles of Spain and his successor. God knows it would have been a blessing for the whole of Europe if the Queen of Spain had had a child. And now, with Charles dying, there will be no offspring.”
 

“Has Charles chosen yet between the French and Austrian claims to his throne?”
 

“No. Despite our urgings to him through the Pope. And, by the bye, I never thanked you for the messages you delivered at Orléans.”
 

She stared at him, surprised at the compliment.
 

He saw the look in her eye. “I may bind you to me by threats, mademoiselle,” he said, “but I’m not unmindful of your service to France. As I said, Charles hasn’t made his will. But now I begin to fear that, whoever is chosen, there will be war. We’re concerned, of course, about interference. William of Orange grows stronger every day. If he should come in on the Austrian side, it would not go well for France. King Louis, you know, has long supported his cousin James the Second’s claim to the English throne.”
 

“And keeps him in splendor at Saint-Germain.”
 

“Yes. But if William were to think that James was preparing another invasion of England or Scotland in order to regain his throne, England’s attention would be diverted from the question of the Spanish succession. To that end, I want you to begin to plant rumors that suggest that James is gathering troops round him. There are several men in this court who, I suspect, are very close to England and her interests and report regularly to William.” Here he named, much to Rouge’s surprise, several of the more important nobles at Versailles. “I leave up to you the form of these rumors,” he went on. “I think you’re clever enough to plant the seeds without seeming obvious.”
 

“Must it be done quickly?”
 

“No. Over the next month or so.”
 

Her heart sank. At least a month in this place! She found herself hating him again. “Is that all?” she asked coldly.
 

“No. You are, of course, to continue to pass along any gossip you hear. But I recall that you and your father were on good terms with the Duc de Bleyle.”
 

“Yes. My father gambled with him frequently, and enjoyed his company.”
 

Torcy frowned. “I may be unnecessarily cautious, but Bleyle’s name has come to my attention through several of my other agents. I remember you once told me you’d heard him mention a place called
Val d’Amour.
That name, too, has reached my ear. On your father’s behalf, I’m sure you can renew your friendship with Monsieur de Bleyle. See if you can learn anything more.”
 

She nodded, finished her supper, and allowed Albret to lead her back to her rooms.
 

The days went by with monotonous regularity. She went to mass with the court in the chapel of Versailles, sitting through endless sermons and ponderous hymns played on the organ, aware that the king’s sharp eye saw every courtier who nodded, every duchesse who whispered behind her fan. She danced, she went to plays, she flirted. At Torcy’s request, and to confound his enemies, she composed passionate love notes—perfumed, and signed with other women’s names—and left them where they might be discovered. She moved through the crowded galleries, jostling the courtiers who lolled about hoping for glimpses of
the king, the opportunity to present a petition for money. In the past she had found it merely boring and dismaying to think that people could spend their lives in such emptiness; now, comparing it to the joy of her lost days at Selommes, she was filled with a bitterness that made her hard and cold.
 

Though Emilie was delighted to dress her in all her pretty new gowns, Rouge was indifferent, caring little that her sun-kissed cheeks and the changes in fashion only served to heighten her beauty. Since the coiffure
à la
Fontanges was now completely out of mode, Rouge’s silver-blond hair was uncovered and dressed softly, with the fashionable scalloped curls
—favorites—
at
her temples, and several loose ringlets over one shoulder. Without the fontange to detract from her face, her beauty mark seemed more provocative, her almond-shaped eyes more mysterious.
 

Ironically, now that she had enough money to avoid the necessity of conniving for dinner invitations, she was besieged with offers from half a dozen
galants
,
several comtesses, and one of the king’s surgeons. She hadn’t seen Arsène; she had heard through gossip that he was in Paris.
 

She did, however, spy Girard de Saint-Esprit one day. They were approaching each other in the Hall of Mirrors. He seemed more mannered and artificial than ever. He pranced along, his feet pointed outward in the fashionable manner, tottering on red cork heels that seemed too high by any standards of common sense. One hand held a tall, beribboned cane that he carried with dainty indifference; the other hand dabbed at his thin nose with a lace handkerchief. He was accompanying the Duc du Maine, Louis’s favorite bastard, and he smiled and fawned over the man as though he were about to embrace him. Looking for crumbs under Louis’s table? thought Rouge with contempt. She nodded a greeting as they passed; Girard froze for a second, then turned his head away. Still the petulant little boy, she thought.
 

In the course of nearly a month she managed to plant Torcy’s rumor as she had been instructed, but not without some damage to her person. One of her quarries was a fat marquis, more interested in eating than in anything else. And when he was at table, there was no talking to him. After several days of teasing and flirting, she contrived at last to get him away from the preoccupations of his food and onto the dance floor, assuring him that she was longing to dance with him. While he trampled her toes, she played the role of a silly coquette, too confused to know what new places might amuse her. Casually she mentioned the several royal châteaux.