Louisa Rawlings (46 page)

“Name of God!”
 

“It was quite horrible, they say. She took a silk scarf and tied it about her neck, and…” Clarisse shivered. “And when they cut her open afterward, they found that she was pregnant!”
 

“Truly a villain,” muttered Rouge.
 

“Madame de Maintenon, who is so good and pious, was beside herself. She begged the king to do something about the wicked man. But then Villeneuve himself—the old man—announced that he was banishing his son to Italy, to quit his sight and his side until the rakehell had repented his evil ways. And there he’s languished until now.”
 

“But now his father is dead.”
 

“Yes. And…” Clarisse frowned as a servant came hurrying toward them.
 

“Madame! Monsieur le comte, your husband, seeks you.”
 

“A plague upon him,” said Clarisse, pouting. “And I haven’t yet told you the story of what Madame la Duchesse de Bourgogne did this morning!” She shrugged helplessly at Rouge, kissed her on the cheek, and hurried from the pavilion. “I’ll see you anon, my dear.”
 

Rouge sat back to finish her coffee, wondering what part of Clarisse’s gossip was worth passing on to Torcy. She heard a soft laugh. Startled, she looked up to see Arsène de Falconet leaning against the lattice of the pavilion. “I never thought I should get rid of her,” he said.
 

She smiled. “You? Her husband sent for her.”
 

“No.
I
sent for her. In the name of her husband. I watched you from afar. I knew that Clarisse, the tireless chatterer, could be here all day. And I wanted you for myself on such a lovely afternoon.” He held out his hand. “Come and walk with me in another part of the garden, before she finds Monsieur de Beaucastel and realizes she’s been duped.”
 

He led her to a quiet garden under an arch of elm trees, and sat with her on a marble bench, holding her hand in his and occasionally bringing it to his lips. His eyes were filled with desire.
 

She laughed softly. “Will you do nothing save look at me?”
 

“I don’t know why you spend your time with Clarisse de Beaucastel. She’s a silly creature.”
 

“But so filled with delightful gossip!”
 

“I shouldn’t think you’d like that.”
 

She shrugged. “It amuses me well enough. Will you see the play tonight?”
 

“No. I saw the players when they were in Paris, and didn’t care for them.”
 

“I’ve been to Paris only one time,” she said. “I found it ugly and dirty. Far too bustling for my taste. But you’ve just been there. What do you do in Paris?”
 

“To begin, I risk the king’s disfavor. He likes to watch his courtiers, to keep them under his heel. But the life in Paris is much freer. ’Tis a society of men and women who are amusing and witty. There’s little attention paid as to who is noble and who is not. Birth and wealth count for naught. Only the pursuit of pleasure.”
 

She remembered what Tintin had said. “You’re so discreet. You tell me about Paris. You don’t tell me about
Arsène
in Paris.” She laughed. “If I were to ask Clarisse to gossip about
you
, I’m afraid I should hear very little.”
 

His eyes were distant, a reserved smile playing at the corners of his handsome mouth. “I keep my own counsel.”
 

“Yet I did hear that your family once had a living from a seaport.”
 

The smile faded. “Yes. Pornichet. Near Nantes.”
 

The anger in his voice surprised her. “I wouldn’t have thought it would distress you. Such a long time ago. And many nobles were punished for their part in the Fronde.”
 

“My grandfather considered it a just punishment and bore the king no ill will. But the port, you know, was given to the dauphin, that great swilling pig, who never missed the occasion to torment my father about it. To the day he died, my father never forgot it.”
 

“Does the dauphin still hold the port? Perhaps you could petition the king for its return to your family.”
 

“No. He gave it to his son the Duc de Berry for a christening gift. And Berry, so far from the golden tree, will have few enough holdings. The king would be very unwilling to return it. And the Falconet honor be damned,” he added bitterly.
 

“I’m sorry I’ve upset you.” It was curious, but this was the only time she’d seen him filled with passion over a matter that didn’t concern his feelings for her. “Shall we change the discourse?”
 

He smiled, the tension leaving his body. “Tell me a secret or two about Marie-Rouge de Tournières.”
 

“What is there to tell?”
 

“How do you teach your eyes to shine so?” He frowned and stood up abruptly, pulling her to her feet. “Damn it, am I never to be allowed to kiss you again?” he growled.
 

“Poor Arsène. I’ve kept you in purgatory long enough, I think.” She put her arms around his neck. “Take your kiss.”
 

He murmured her name and pulled her into his embrace. His kiss was as impassioned as ever it had been. Though it stirred her senses, she knew that the specter of Pierre and his kiss would haunt her forever. As Arsène released her, she felt the tears welling in her eyes.
 

“Name of God,” he said in wonderment. “You weep for me? My sweet Marie-Rouge, tell me…”
 

“Rouge! How glad I am to find you again!” They turned in surprise to see Clarisse bearing down on them. She giggled. “He sends for me, and then he vanishes! I shall never know why I married him! Ah, well. Come along, Rouge. You promised to help me choose a velvet for my new gown.”
 

Rouge smiled in apology. “Forgive me, Arsène. I did promise her.”
 

He looked as though he wanted to kill Clarisse. He bowed to the women and kissed Rouge’s hand. “I’ll join you at the play tonight. It is no entertainment, but to be with you I’d endure anything.”
 

She didn’t see Torcy for nearly a week after that; he was at Fontainebleau with the king. With Louis gone, the court relaxed somewhat, pursuing its amusements with more abandon. Arsène had clearly been encouraged by Rouge’s kiss. He followed her about the palace, danced with her at every opportunity, and courted her so openly that even Clarisse began to whisper behind her fan to her friends when she thought that Rouge was out of hearing range.
 

There were a few more kisses, and once Arsène put his hand on her breast, his eyes questioning, hoping. She smiled and took his hand away. “Not yet,” she said softly. She wondered why she
did
restrain him. He was dying of love for her. He made no secret of it. But he hadn’t mentioned marriage. Should she? Would he agree to it? She was almost certain of it, but still… Why did she hesitate? Was it a lingering resentment of that night in the carriage, the ugly jealousy she had glimpsed in his face? Was it the sense that he was still a stranger to her, guarding his deepest feelings, that caused her to have doubts?
 

Or was it the memory of hazy green eyes, a firm mouth on hers, that held her back?
 

Torcy sent for her the day after he returned from Fountainebleau. He seemed more agitated and impatient than usual, pacing Albret’s room like a caged beast. “Still no word from Spain,” he muttered. “And all our dispatches—even the ones we intercept from our enemies—tell us that Charles hasn’t long to live.”
 

“How do you manage to intercept foreign dispatches?” she asked in surprise.
 

“My dear woman,” he said, “I’m the postmaster general of France! I can do what I wish!”
 

She stared. “Even if a letter is sealed?”
 

“It’s scarcely your concern. But we take an impression of the seal with quicksilver before we break it; it’s simple enough then to recreate the crest when we reseal the letter with fresh wax. Half the rogues in France know that trick.” He waved his hand as though her questions were an annoying diversion. “I have an assignment for you. Have you any information for me first?”
 

“Yes. Quite a bit of gossip this time. There’s more buzzing from the courtiers than from flies! There’s the death of the Marquis de Guerche. Some people seem to think that he was poisoned.”
 

“Pah! I’ve heard that. Every time someone dies unexpectedly, poison is suspected. Never mind that it makes no sense in most cases. As for Guerche, the surgeons found quite another cause, a ruptured spleen, when they opened him up.”
 

“I don’t suppose you want to hear what Madame says about her sister-in-law, Madame de Maintenon?”
 

He laughed. “I know exactly what she says. We open enough of her letters that she sends to her aunt in Hanover. You might be amused to know what she says about
me
! ‘The horrid little man.’ No. That’s scarcely news.”
 

“Well, I’ve heard of several new
amours
, including the Duc de Chartres and an actress in Paris. And then there’s the gossip about the blackguard Villeneuve.”
 

“Yes. That was a bad business. Levreux’s wife.”
 

“He sounds a frightful man.”
 

Torcy shrugged. “No more wanton than half the people here. He’s already sued his majesty for
permission to return to Versailles and pay his respects as soon as he gets his affairs in order.”
 

Rouge had a sudden thought. “Do you think he’s a danger?”
 

“What do you mean?”
 

“He’s just come from Italy,
n’est-ce pas
? Do you think he might have had dealings with Savoy, or the Austrians, while he was in exile? After all, a man with no personal honor might be equally dishonorable toward his country.”
 

“I doubt it. All his old friends were rakehells like himself, and scarcely interested in politics.”
 

“Well, you said that every piece of gossip was important.”
 

“Yes.” He frowned. “You mentioned the Duc de Chartres. What did you hear of him?”
 

“As I told you. Only that he has a mistress in Paris. An actress. And that he’s very unhappy at court.”
 

Torcy looked morose. “With cause, I suppose. He fought brilliantly at Steinkirk. Then he was shunted aside upon his return to Versailles. He’s a gifted man. But a man in whom the vices are forever at war with the virtues. He paints, he writes music, he dabbles in chemistry. But he leads a dissolute life. And likely to be more so if, in addition to his love of women, he chooses, like his father, to take an equally strong fancy in the other direction. But I’m getting far afield. ’Tis the man’s politics, more than his aberrations, that concern me. Here is where you may serve me.”
 

She stiffened. “I? Am I expected now to seduce monsieur le duc?”
 

“I have no doubt you could do it with skill. But it won’t be necessary unless it’s the only way out of a difficult situation.”
 

“What do you mean?”
 

The Duc de Chartres’s name has turned up in several letters from Spain. It may be unimportant. It may be nothing. Unfortunately, the duc has many friends. If he’s had secret correspondence with Spain, the letters may be delivered by private courier. The only way we can be sure is by examining Chartres’s correspondence. The letters that he keeps in his
appartement
.”
 

“Name of God, any chambermaid can do that!”
 

“And would find nothing, since he destroys his letters, or locks them up. But every afternoon, when he’s not out hunting or riding with Madame, his mother, he retires to his rooms to write letters. The servants are forbidden to disturb him at that time. But if a charming young woman, such as yourself, should be seen at his door at that time, no one would think anything of it.
Merely that he had found other pursuits besides letter writing.”
 

“And what am I to say? ‘Pardon me, monsieur le duc, while I read your letters’?”
 

“Not at all. Without telling the king of my suspicions, I’ll see that he summons Chartres to his
cabinet
for an audience. The duc will leave his study and his writing desk, and hurry to his majesty. You will slip into his rooms and see what you can find among his papers.”
 

“And if he should return while I’m about this business?”
 

“I leave that to you, mademoiselle. If it’s the only way to allay his suspicions, then by all means seduce him.”
 

“Now, by heaven, Monsieur de Torcy, I’ll not do it!”
 

His eyes were cold. “Then you and your father will go to prison.”
 

“How can you be so unfeeling?” she cried.