Louisa Rawlings (49 page)

“Another league more, mademoiselle. We’ll soon be at Sans-Souci.”
 

“Yes, I know.” Rouge nodded and stretched. She was stiff, from tension as well as from the long carriage ride. The closer they came to home, the more worried she became. How
had
Tintin managed to raise the money? A wild night of gambling? But what would he have used for a stake to begin with, to win back 125,000 livres? Some mad scheme, perhaps. She hadn’t forgotten the conversation she’d overheard in Chartres’s bedchamber. If Tintin was involved with the plotters, God knows how he’d earned the money!
 

There was always the chance, of course, that he’d married. She remembered the rich jeweler and his two daughters. Perhaps one of them had decided to make an honest man of Tintin. She found herself praying that that was the case; anything else, and she might be in the unhappy position of having to bail Tintin out of trouble once again.
 

The first thing she saw as they approached Sans-Souci was a line of chestnut trees—that hadn’t been there before—leading to the bridge over the water; then the great lawn beyond, smooth and green. It swarmed with workmen pushing large rollers over the vast expanse, and gardeners wheeling barrows of fresh sod and new shrubbery. The château itself had been newly whitewashed, its old turrets bright in the sun; and half a dozen men crawled on the roof, armed with tools and sacks of blue slate. The whole place was humming and buzzing; Rouge had never seen such activity in her life.
 

Emilie clapped her hands for joy. “Oh, mademoiselle! How can it be? Have the fairies been at work here?”
 

“
Le bon Dieu
only knows!” said Rouge. First the repaid debt, and now this?
 

They pulled into the fresh gravel of the courtyard. Rouge scarcely waited for the carriage to stop and the footman to open the door before she was out and hurrying toward the entrance to the château. “Take care of the unpacking, Emilie,” she called over her shoulder, and rushed in to find Tintin. Within the château itself were more changes: handsome tapestries and new furniture and crystal chandeliers. And everywhere, servants. Bustling about, moving, scrubbing, cleaning. “Tintin!” she cried impatiently, and sped up the stairs.
 

She found Chrétien in a large drawing room, supervising the placement of several mirrors and large console tables. Beside him stood Brocq, his old equerry, fluttering helplessly—although, as chief steward, he was nominally in charge of all of Sans-Souci. It made no difference. Tintin was directing everything. But, with his customary generosity, he remembered to turn to Brocq every few minutes and pat the old man on the arm. “You’re doing a splendid job, Brocq. How could I manage without you?”
 

“Tintin!” Rouge threw herself into his arms and embraced him. “Dear Tintin.”
 

He smiled. “Are you happy?”
 

“Oh, Tintin,” she giggled, and pulled him by the sleeve. “Come and talk to me.”
 

He led her into his study, chattering all the while about the changes he had made, the changes yet to come. “Did you see the chestnut trees? Your mother always wanted chestnut trees there. And I’ll put in a little fountain with colored fish.” He sat down in a large chair and pulled her into his lap. “I should have listened to you from the first,” he said. “You were right. A good marriage was just the thing to save Sans-Souci!”
 

Her heart jumped for joy. He
had
married one of the jeweler’s daughters. And he certainly seemed pleased with himself, filled with contentment. The girl must be a charmer!
 

“You’re happy, then,” he said again.
 

“Of course. Why shouldn’t I be? Your problems are resolved. Sans-Souci has never been more beautiful… Why shouldn’t I be happy?”
 

His brow creased. “I do confess to a bit of uneasiness. But then I remembered you said it was what you wanted. To save your dear Sans-Souci.”
 

She stood up from his lap and looked around his small study. Even here the changes were evident: fresh upholstery on the chairs, the brasses at the fireplace polished and gleaming. “It must have been a very generous dowry,” she said.
 

“I promised no dowry. I made it clear I could afford nothing. The duc himself insisted on a generous settlement.”
 

“The
duc
? Has our jeweler neighbor bought himself that high an office? I didn’t think they were for the buying! He must be very ambitious for his daughters!”
 

Tintin looked at her in bewilderment. “The jeweler’s daughters? I haven’t seen the silly creatures in weeks!” He frowned. “Didn’t you get my letter?”
 

“What letter?”
 

“I wrote to you at Versailles.”
 

“I was at Marly.”
 

“Then what brought you home?”
 

She hesitated. Torcy still expected silence. “I learned…quite by chance…that your debt was paid.”
 

He sat back in his chair and shook his head. “Then you don’t know. Well, you shall hear the happy news from my own lips.”
 

She laughed. If not the jeweler’s daughters, who could it be? “Are you to marry the richest aristocrat in the kingdom?” she asked in amusement.
 

“No. Don’t you understand what I’ve been telling you?
You
are!”
 

Chapter Eleven

She felt the blood drain from her face. “What do you mean? What are you talking about, Tintin?”
 

“It’s what you always wanted. ‘The devil himself,’ I remember you said once. If only to save Sans-Souci
.
And I’ve got you a fine husband. Far from a devil!”
 

She still couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. She stared at him in disbelief. “You’ve…arranged a marriage for me?”
 

His brown eyes were soft and filled with confusion. “Aren’t you pleased? I was sure you would be. ‘Chrétien,’ I said to myself, ‘it’s a sensible thing you’re doing for a change! Rouge will be proud of you.” He rubbed his fist against his chin. “Aren’t you? Isn’t it what you
wanted
? Name of God, Rouge, tell me I haven’t made a grievous error!”
 

She sank into a chair and stared up at the ceiling. How could she reproach him? How many times had she told him that she intended a “good” marriage? And given him leave to arrange it, if he could. How was he to know that her heart had betrayed her foolish, practical mind?
 

He seemed uneasy at her silence. “When I didn’t hear from you concerning Arsène de Falconet, I guessed that nothing had come of it. That you were free to marry someone else.”
 

Oh, the bitter irony of it! “I was about to say yes to Arsène, and was only waiting until I could speak to you first.”
 

Chrétien frowned. “You don’t love Arsène, do you?”
 

“No. It was as practical an arrangement as you seem to have framed. And Arsène knew it.” What in the name of heaven was she going to tell Arsène now? “Oh, Tintin!” she burst out, jumping to her feet. She moved restlessly about the room. “Not even to tell me or allow me to meet him first?”
 

“The duc wanted it settled quickly, so he could put his château in order. To welcome you properly. Besides,” he said, clearly wounded by her reaction, “I
did
write to you! Am I to be reproached because you were at Marly? When I didn’t hear from you, I assumed you agreed and were hurrying home to assure me of your pleasure. And so I informed the duc.”
 

She chewed on her thumb, her mind in a turmoil. “Did you meet him? The duc?”
 

He bristled. “Of course I did! Do you take me for a fool? He’s a fine man. Well-favored. Not young and green like that ass Saint-Esprit, nor yet too old. I think you’ll be pleased. And a generous man, I might add. He didn’t spend a moment in bargaining. ‘I want a settlement,’ I said. ‘How much?’ he said. ‘Two hundred thousand livres,’ I said boldly. There was no point in being frugal. ‘Done!’ he said. And the first thing I did was to send a purse off to the moneylender in Paris. ‘Chrétien,’ I said to myself, ‘Rouge would want you to do it.’ I thought you’d be pleased with the way I dealt with the matter.”
 

She sighed. At least the debt had been paid. “And does he have a name, this…bridegroom…of mine?”
 

“Yes. And a fine old one it is. Charles Hugues de Beuvron, Duc de Villeneuve.”
 

She gasped. “Sweet Jesu, you can’t have done it! That most wicked, shameful man! Were you mad?”
 

Chrétien scowled. “My judgment of men has always been sound! We spent half the day together. I found him to be a most excellent man.”
 

“Half a day? My God! Don’t you know the kind of man he is? The stories from Versailles?”
 

“Well, I heard the stories at the time. I never met him in those days. It was while your mother was still alive, and I went seldom to Versailles. But I always took the stories from the court with a grain of salt. Youthful immoderation, that’s all it was. I’ve had a few escapades myself.”
 

“And a woman who kills herself? Youthful immoderation?” she asked indignantly.
 

“No one knows what happened with Madame de Levreux. But
he
didn’t put the knot around her neck!”
 

“Pah!” She turned away in disgust.
 

“Name of God, Rouge! I wasn’t unmindful of the stories! I asked the man directly, with no thought to sparing his feelings, if he would bring grief to my daughter. ‘No,’ he said, and gave me his hand on it. That seemed fair enough to me. ’Tis my thinking that his years in exile made a man of him. For, by Saint Martin, he was a most pleasant and agreeable fellow.”
 

She stared out of the window. There was a flower bed of bright roses where, but a month ago, there had been rank weeds. “Why would he choose
me
?”
 

“He wants a wife. He no longer knows many of the women at court. But he heard talk of you from friends who came from Versailles. He asked if I had a picture of you. I showed him that portrait. Not the one of you in the blue gown. The one that I had painted last winter that hangs in the long gallery. He stared at it for a long time. Truth to tell,
ma chère
,
I think he fell in love at that very moment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, she’s very beautiful. I want her for my wife.’ Just like that. No irresolution. I like that in a man.”
 

She paced the room and wrung her hands. “Oh, Tintin, I can’t!” It wasn’t even that she’d never see Pierre again, although that thought cut like a knife after the renewal of her hopes in the past two days. But to be wife to a libertine who represented all that she had found most vile and wicked at Versailles! She shivered. “I
can’t
, Tintin.” She turned to him with pleading eyes.
 

He looked haggard. “I don’t know what to say. I was so sure you’d agree to it that I signed the betrothal contract in your name. And then…don’t you see, Rouge?” He waved vaguely about the room. “I took the money. All two hundred thousand livres! It’s gone now. The moneylender. And the repairs to Sans-Souci. How am I to replace it now?”
 

She felt giddy with despair, laughing even as the tears flowed. How hopeless. How silly! She had had three bridegrooms since the spring! Girard, Arsène, and now Villeneuve. And the only proposal of marriage that had stirred her heart—from a man whose lips had tasted of flour that day—she’d had to refuse. She allowed herself to mourn for a few minutes, weeping softly into her hands.
 

Tintin stood up and put his arms around her and patted her on the back. “What have I done to you?”
 

At length she moved away from him, dabbed at her eyes, tried to calm herself. What could she do? If she was trapped, it was a trap of her own devising. How could she refuse Villeneuve? She and Tintin would suffer as before. Prison, perhaps, for breach of promise, confiscation of Sans-Souci to repay the settlement. Or, even worse, with his honor at stake, Villeneuve could challenge Tintin to a duel. It was illegal, of course, but there were always ways to get around it. If Villeneuve was young and robust, Tintin wouldn’t stand a chance, for all his skills with a sword.
 

And there was more than that. How could she shame Tintin, make him appear a fool or a charlatan for accepting the duc’s offer? He’d meant well; he’d only done it out of love for her. She sighed. Maybe Tintin was right about Villeneuve. His wickedness at court
had
been a long time ago, she guessed. Hadn’t Clarisse said she was still a child at the time? And Clarisse was nineteen, like Rouge. A man could change through the years. Tintin certainly seemed to like the duc.
 

And it was sensible to marry him. If he was as rich as she’d heard, she’d be in a position to keep an eye on Tintin, or rescue him from his debts if she couldn’t persuade him to give up his gambling. Yes. It was sensible. And hadn’t her mother taught her to make the most of every situation, no matter how difficult? She sighed again. “Where is the marriage to take place?” she asked.