Louisa Rawlings (45 page)

“I’d go to Saint-Germain,” she said at length. “They say it’s beautiful.” She pouted. “But my cousin says it will be tiresome without any of the gaiety of the court. He doesn’t think King James will even be there!”
 

He stepped on her foot again and apologized, puffing mightily. “Where should he be, if not at Saint-Germain?”

She laughed like a giddy schoolgirl. “Oh, busy playing with his soldiers, I expect!” she said, and was pleased to see the sudden spark of interest in his eyes.
 

“How do you know?” he asked.
 

She shrugged in helpless innocence. “Well, that’s what my cousin said, I think. And he’s very friendly with the queen’s lady-in-waiting.” Mercifully the dance ended and she was able to escape, leaving him with a thoughtful frown on his face. A pity, she thought, that she couldn’t sue that schemer Torcy for a new set of toes!
 

During the whole of June she never saw the Duc de Bleyle; it was thought he was in the country, at his estates. At last one day he appeared, and she lost no time arranging to have herself invited to play cards at his table. She gambled more modestly than Tintin, managing even to turn a profit of a few crowns at the end of a morning of play. Though she kept up a lively chatter, sharing the gossip of the court with the men around the table, she didn’t hear anything useful from Bleyle. Not a word about the mysterious
Val d’Amour.
She lingered for a few minutes after the others had gone, hoping to renew their conversation, but he had turned cold and surly. She began to wonder why Tintin spent so much time with Bleyle. Certainly he enjoyed the gambling, and they had shared many evenings of wild carousing, but there seemed to be nothing to recommend Bleyle beyond that, at least to her way of thinking. Some years younger than Tintin, he was a greedy man, never content with his considerable fortune or his connections at court, which had garnered for him these splendid rooms at Versailles. And he hated to lose at cards. He frowned at her now as she gathered her winnings and prepared to withdraw.
 

“Chrétien should take lessons from you, Rouge,” he said sourly. “You have the instincts of a killer.”
 

She eyed him with gentle amusement. “Such ill grace for such a small defeat? I shouldn’t care to cross you when it’s more than a game of
brelan
!”
She rose from her chair and turned to the door.
 

Arsène was standing there. His eyes widened at sight of her, then he bowed slightly and let her pass. How curious, thought Rouge. She hadn’t thought that Arsène knew Bleyle.
 

Arsène caught up with her before she reached the stairway. “Marie-Rouge. Don’t go.”
 

She turned, studying him with dispassionate eyes as he hurried toward her, a hesitant smile on his face. If the sight of him had stirred her blood before she’d met Pierre, it was no longer so. He was still as handsome, the eyes as blue, the black brows as sharp and striking as before. But the smile no longer warmed her, and the thought of that stormy night, when he would have forced her into his bed, cast a shadow between them. “Arsène,” she said quietly.
 

He put his hand on her arm. His eyes burned with an ardent intensity. “I’ve missed you,” he said. The smile faded. “You tormenting devil,” he said hoarsely, “where did you go? That bumpkin—what was he, a miller?—said that you’d gone home.”
 

“Did you pay him so little mind that you can’t remember?”
She
would never forget him.
 

“My God, why should I care? I was mad to find you! Had he been a stinking fish seller, I’d not have known or cared! Where the devil did you go?”
 

She wasn’t ready to assuage him so quickly. She intended to make him suffer a great deal—for his behavior toward her, and toward Pierre. Besides, she wanted him to desire her so much that he’d beg for a marriage. “I went home, as the miller said.”
 

He swore under his breath. “I was at Sans-Souci. You weren’t there.”
 

“Perhaps I was and didn’t wish to see you. You were in Paris all this month. Or so they say. Do I doubt
you
?”
 

“In Paris. Yes. And half out of my mind,” he growled. His face was tense with passion. “I cannot eat, I cannot sleep for thinking of you! You burn in my blood like a fever! I go to bed with whores or comtesses. What matter? They all have your face.” He laughed harshly. “My friends call me the madman now, wondering what has happened to the Arsène they knew! Name of God, Marie-Rouge, I…” He stopped. A parade of cooks and footmen was coming down the corridor, bearing food for the king’s
petit couvert.
They slowed as they reached Rouge and Arsène; the
maître d’hôtel
raised an accusing eyebrow, waiting for Arsène’s salute. His face said clearly that this was the height of bad manners, and the king would surely learn of it! Arsène looked as though he would explode. “Damn!” he swore, and swept off his hat with a bow.
“La viande du roi!”
he said through clenched teeth, paying the proper respect to the dishes, as though the food were the king himself. The
maître d’hôtel
smiled his satisfaction, waved his baton to his men, and continued on his way.
 

Arsène took a deep breath, allowing his overwrought emotions to cool. “Look at me,” he said. “As mad and moonstruck as a boy!” He passed a hand across his eyes. “Will you permit me to pay court to you, Marie-Rouge?”
 

“I haven’t forgotten your behavior in the carriage,” she said. “Nor the reason I was forced to escape you that night.”
 

“I swear I wouldn’t have taken you against your will.”
 

“A simple oath to take now. But I remember your threats.”
 

“As do I. With regret. Will you allow me to make amends?”
 

“Very well. But on quite different terms this time. And one more thing…” Until she was free of Torcy, she had to make this clear to Arsène. “I intend to maintain my friendship with Albret de Montigny,” she said.
 

He closed his eyes for a moment. He was clearly unhappy. “I don’t care what you do. Only permit me to see you.”
 

“Of course.”
 

He took her hand and kissed it fervently. “Tonight? Will you sup with me?”
 

She nodded and turned to go up the stairs. She stopped, taking pity on him at last. “Arsène,” she said gently, “I swear to you that Albret is only a friend.” Ah, well, perhaps she could afford to be a little more frank without revealing anything. “His mother is dismayed at his inclinations. He only wants her to think that he…takes an interest in women. I enjoy his company. I see no harm in the deception. And I intend to continue it.”
 

“I understand.” He bowed and kissed her hand again. “Until this evening.” He turned away and moved down the corridor.
 

The weeks passed; Torcy insisted that she stay a little longer. Rouge was glad that it wasn’t too hot a July in Versailles, though people said that Paris was stifling. She rode on the cool days, walked among the fountains and groves on the warm ones. She allowed Arsène to court her, but his attentions, ardent yet respectful, left her strangely unmoved. After Pierre, there was no love that could compare; there was only the desolation of her heart, knowing she had lost forever what was most precious to her.
 

She began to amuse herself during the dreary hours she sat at mass in the king’s chapel by studying the royal family. First came the king, of course, a man of politeness and nobility, who nevertheless inspired fear and awe in his family as well as his subjects; his second wife, the commoner Madame de Maintenon, whose piety had served to temper the licentious behavior that had been Louis’s habit in his youth. There was the king’s only legitimate son and heir to the throne, the fat, useless dauphin, and his three sons. Rouge was particularly curious about these three—Louis’s grandsons—in light of her discussions with Torcy. There was the Duc de Bourgogne, the eldest and heir presumptive, in direct line to the throne, a young man of eighteen—well loved by all at court, he was said, nonetheless, to have a fierce temper and a haughty pride. He had been married for three years to a charming young princess, the delight of Louis’s old age. There was Philippe, Duc d’Anjou, serious and virtuous, and at seventeen already being proposed for the throne of Spain. The most charming of the three was the youngest, the Duc de Berry, a happy, carefree boy. Rouge watched with delight as he ogled his brother’s wife, rolling his eyes in such an amusing fashion that the poor little princess was scarcely able to keep from laughing aloud during the sermon. But it was also said that Berry was weak and quite without character, even at fourteen. And too fond of pleasure. It was feared that he could easily be led into a life of debauchery.
 

Not that there was any of that lacking in the royal family! thought Rouge, looking across the chapel to where Monsieur, the king’s brother, sat with his wife. A dainty, round-bellied little man, he had had two wives and four children, but all of Versailles knew he had always preferred the company of men. He was painted and perfumed, in the highest heels and the most elaborate costumes, and he spent his money buying favors for all the cavaliers who caught his fancy. At the age of sixty, and despite the attention he lavished upon himself, he was beginning to show the ravages of a lifetime of licentiousness and corruption. Because of him, Louis had tried only infrequently to put a stop to the rampant sexual excesses of the court; the king had been heard to remark with sadness: “Am I then to begin with my own brother?” It was said that Madame, Monsieur’s robust German wife, hated everything and everyone at the court, with the exception of the king. She doted on her son, the Duc de Chartres, and had hoped to arrange a good marriage for him. To her shame, the king had insisted on marrying Chartres to one of his own illegitimate daughters; the thought that a rightful prince of the line had been forced to the indignity of marrying a bastard—even if she was the king’s bastard—was a constant source of dismay and grief to Madame. And the fact that Chartres’s marriage was clearly unhappy only added to her misery.
 

All these scandalous affairs, of course, made for lively gossip in court circles. As Rouge had discovered in the spring, Clarisse de Beaucastel was a very good source of gossip, if one ignored the malice behind her words. For the first time—because of Torcy—she found herself encouraging Clarisse to share what she knew.
 

They sat one sunny afternoon in a charming latticed pavilion in the garden of Versailles, drinking coffee and chatting. Clarisse had already told her of two adulterous liaisons and a suspected poisoning, and had now begun on the failings of Monsieur and his family. “How the old German bitch hates Madame de Maintenon!” she exclaimed. “She’s never forgiven her for being a simple governess before she caught the king’s eye.” Clarisse leaned forward. “I’ve heard that she calls Maintenon
‘die alte Zote’
, the old whore! Is that not delicious? As for Madame’s son Chartres—he’s a perfect scandal! His affairs are becoming more trying than ever to his mother. He goes to Paris often now. They say he has a mistress there. Some common drab, an actress, I’ve been told.” She tried to look sympathetic. “It’s really not his fault, you understand. The unhappiness of his marriage. And then, of course, I shouldn’t care to be a member of the royal family and see my chance for the throne moving farther away with each new birth. He’s quite talented, you know, but the king gives him nothing to do. So of course he allows his father and his friends from Paris to…provide amusements.”
 

“But he seems so bored,” said Rouge. “So indifferent to all that goes on at court.”
 

Clarisse waggled a knowing finger at her. “You mustn’t believe that. He’s far too clever not to have feelings and opinions. He merely likes to hide them, just to be perverse.” She smirked with satisfaction. “I very nearly had an
amour
with him myself, once. He’s quite charming when he wants to be. And quite horrid when he doesn’t!”
 

Rouge sipped at her coffee. “I’m not sure I’d like to know him better.”

“Oh, you’re too virtuous by half! You must be careful to avoid the Duc de Villeneuve, then.”
 

Rouge frowned. “Have I seen him here at Versailles?”
 

“You mean you haven’t heard? The old duc is dead!” Clarisse was clearly delighted to be the bearer of this piece of news.
 

“I don’t remember my father ever speaking of him.”
 

“No. He never came to court. He didn’t like Versailles, but the king loved him and forgave him anyway. A good and noble man, they say.”
 

“And now he’s dead.”
 

Clarisse leaned forward, her eyes shining. “But here’s the bewitching part—his wicked son is coming home!”
 

Rouge smiled in helpless ignorance. “From where?”
 

Clarisse clicked her tongue. “Did you never hear the story? He was the most dissolute
galant
that Versailles ever saw! Every lady sighed for him, and wished to find a place in his bed. And he satisfied them all, they say. Alas, I wasn’t old enough to come to Versailles at the time; I’m sure I should have succumbed. He took up with a married woman. I don’t remember her name. I was told once, but I’ve forgot. At any rate, her husband was old and impotent. But
very
jealous. No one knows what happened next. The villain must have spurned her, because the woman killed herself.”