Louisa Rawlings (71 page)

Emilie looked down at her hands. “Well, some of the people at Choisy were kind. And…and I felt comfortable there. As if I belonged. And I miss the puppy.”
 

Rouge sighed. “I miss it, too.”
 

“Then why don’t we go back, madame? Monsieur de Villeneuve must need you, to help him recover from his wounds.”
 

She turned to the window and gazed out at the well-cut evergreens, the neat and ordered parterres, bare of their summer flowers. “No,” she said, her lip trembling. “Monsieur de Villeneuve doesn’t need me.” She shook off her unhappiness. It wasn’t like her to dwell on the past. It wasn’t sensible. She waved her hand at her trunks. “Now, not another word of complaint, Emilie. Please unpack while I go and find Monsieur de Torcy.” There seemed no point in being secretive about knowing him any longer. Torcy had summoned her openly this time, and had even left a message at Versailles, instructing her to come on to Fontainebleau. His rooms, off a
galerie
paneled and carved with dark old woods, were almost as small as hers.
 

Torcy greeted her in his study. He looked more distracted than usual, barely taking the time or effort to exchange empty pleasantries as he indicated a chair. “It has been a difficult morning, madame,” he said. “As you may not have heard in the provinces, Charles of Spain died ten days ago, on the first of November.”
 

She looked surprised. “No, I hadn’t heard.”
 

“That’s not why I sent for you, however. I wanted you here to discuss the…plot you uncovered at Rochenard.”
 

“Has anything further happened? Was anyone arrested?”
 

“We found letters in the
hôtel
of the Comte de Falconet. Letters that clearly implicate Monsieur de Bleyle, and suggest treason as well on the part of Trivelin and Gourgon.”
 

“And Monsieur le Duc de Chartres?”
 

“Nothing. He was well protected by his friends.”
 

“What’s to become of them?”
 

“The Duc de Bleyle, of course, tried to kill your husband in a most cowardly manner. Though dueling is forbidden—and Monsieur de Villeneuve has much to answer for in the matter of Arsène de Falconet’s death—still, it was honorable. But Bleyle’s actions are not so easily forgiven. To show his anger, the king has exiled Bleyle to Normandie for five years and cut his pension. Trivelin and Gourgon also will lose their pensions and positions of favor in court.”
 

Rouge stared at him in astonishment. “And that’s all? For
treason
?” He nodded. “And Chartres?” she demanded.
 

Torcy straightened the books on his desk. “Although, of course, Monsieur de Bleyle and the others might have named Chartres under torture, it serves no purpose. There would still be no physical proof. No letters, you understand. Moreover, it would reflect badly upon the royal family. You must remember, madame, that his majesty is aware of how his own father was shamed constantly by the treasonous behavior of his relations. We who serve Louis want to spare him that shame from a man who is both his nephew and his son-in-law.”
 

“And Chartres goes free,” she said bitterly.
 

“That’s precisely why I sent for you, madame. I want you to keep silent on this whole unfortunate business. Bleyle and the others can be thought to be in disgrace because of some private insult to his majesty. No one need learn more.”
 

“And the attack on the coach?”
 

“It’s been reported merely as a random attack by brigands. The intendant took the care to strip them of their Austrian trappings. And no one will be the wiser if you keep silent.”
 

She jumped up from her chair and paced about the room. “I can’t believe what you’re asking me, Monsieur de Torcy!”
 

“Madame,” he said coldly, “sit down. I told you a long time ago that my concerns are with France! Do you begin to understand what is happening at this time? Do you appreciate that France doesn’t need her enemies to learn of plots of royal against royal? If ever there was a time when the Bourbons held together, it must be at the present! I can tell you now that Philippe, Duc d’Anjou, has been named as Charles’s heir to the throne of Spain.”
 

“Yes, I know.”
 

“
Hein!
How could you know, if you didn’t know Charles was dead until I told you? The contents of the will weren’t announced in the court of Spain until Charles died!”
 

“Monsieur de Bleyle had spies in Madrid. I heard the news a month ago in Rochenard.”
 

“Then perhaps you can appreciate France’s dilemma. When Charles died, the Spanish ambassador came at once to formally present the will to his majesty, and, by the terms of the will, to offer the throne to Monsieur le Duc d’Anjou. If France declines, the ambassador will send a courier with all haste to Vienna, to present the throne to the Hapsburg prince. We have met in council—in Madame de Maintenon’s rooms—for two evenings now, trying to decide what to do.”
 

“Accept the throne, of course. For Anjou.”
 

“And if we do, then the Dutch, and the English under William will likely go to war with us. They want to see Spain partitioned instead.”
 

“And if we don’t accept for Anjou? If we favor William’s plans for partition?”
 

“William would become our ally in the matter. But Spain, fearing its own dismemberment, would become our enemy. And of course Austria would accept the throne, and we’d once again be surrounded by hostile forces.”
 

“Then what’s to be done?”
 

“I favor acceptance myself. I think war is inevitable in any event. But we’ll have an ally in Spain, even if the rest of Europe is arrayed against us. Better to go to war for a just cause—the will—than to attempt to partition Spain against the desires of its government and its people. Or to see the Austrians rule.”
 

She found her curiosity piqued, despite her own entirely different concerns. “Has a decision been reached?”
 

“His majesty received the Spanish ambassador this morning. I was present, as well as Monseigneur, the king’s son. The ambassador was given Louis’s decision.”
 

“Which is…?”
 

“When the king is ready to announce it to the court, you’ll know, madame. But I think now you can see that the unfortunate business of Chartres must be kept a secret. The temporary junta in Spain could quite easily refuse to honor Charles’s will, if they felt that members of the royal house of Bourbon were capable of plotting one against the other. The throne would be offered to Austria at once, if France seemed unworthy of trust.”
 

She scowled at him, tasting the bitter bile in her mouth. “And me?” she said. “I’ve rendered a service to France. Of my own accord, monsieur. You had no hold on me at Rochenard. But I did it as a duty. I went to Rochenard and joined its company of libertines, thereby tainting my husband’s name, and bringing shame to myself. And now, because of your insistence on secrecy, I appear to the court to be just as you always thought me! A whore capable of betraying a man—her husband or anyone else. I can hear the whispers now: Falconet lies dead because of the whore, and her own husband, disgraced and shamed, lies wounded!”
 

Torcy sighed in weariness. “Madame, your reputation will survive it. And then”—his mouth twisted in a cynical smile—“I can only feel so much pity for a woman who’d marry a man with a reputation far more unsavory than her own.”
 

She stood up to leave, filled with disgust and helplessness. “How little you know of people, Monsieur de Torcy, with your concerns for France. Have you forgot, with your thoughts always on the game of politics, that France
is
her people?”
 

He looked uncomfortable. “Madame, if you’ve been hurt by this, I’m sorry. If there’s something that France can do to show her appreciation for your devotion to her…”
 

She had a sudden thought. Torcy had ruined
her
life, but perhaps… “Yes. Yes, there is something. There’s a young man. From the village of Selommes in Orléanais. This spring he enlisted in the army. I don’t know what regiment he’s in. But I’m sure you could find out which recruiters were in Selommes in May or June. His name is Barnabé Grezel.”
 

“I think he can be found. What do you want of him?”
 

“Release him from his service.”
 

“That can’t be done, madame. His service, by the terms of his recruitment, is for four years.”
 

She frowned. “Monsieur de Torcy, you blackmailed me once to get what you wanted. Permit me to return the favor. I have no doubt you’re able—if you wish it—to have Barnabé Grezel released. Very well, please do so. If you don’t, I’ll see to it that everyone at court learns of Chartres’s plot against his cousin Anjou. I know you think the courtiers a silly lot, but they’re superb gossips in the hothouse of Versailles. And they don’t care about proofs. In short order, there won’t be a man or woman in any court of Europe who won’t know of Chartres’s duplicity.”
 

He smiled wryly and shrugged. “You have a most convincing argument, Madame de Villeneuve. I’ll see to Monsieur Grezel’s release at once.”
 

She turned toward the door. “He needn’t learn that I made the request. I should prefer not.” She bowed her head in his direction. “Your servant, monsieur,” she said coldly, and left the room.
 

She chose to stay at Fontainebleau. It seemed as good a place as any, when she felt so rootless, as though she belonged nowhere. Besides, she was curious to know whether Louis had decided to accept the throne of Spain for his grandson.
 

For the courtiers, life went on as usual during the next two or three days. The wolf hunting at Fountainebleau was exceptionally fine. And though plays and other diversions had been canceled by Louis for the winter, out of respect for Charles’s death, there was still gambling and flirtations to occupy the evenings. And the gossips had never been busier. The court buzzed with all sorts of rumors, the general opinion being that Louis had already decided to accept the throne for Anjou. Though it was said that Louis had complained that he’d be blamed, whatever he decided! There was such certainty of an imminent decision that many of the nobles were going directly to Versailles to wait, anticipating the king’s summons of his full court.
 

But there was time for other gossip as well. Rouge tried not to hear the things that were being said about her and Pierre: that the betraying Duc de Villeneuve was at last being betrayed, and by his own wife. The man who had cuckolded many a husband in the past had himself been cuckolded by the unfortunate Comte de Falconet, who had paid for his dalliance with his life. Rouge suffered more because of what they said about Pierre than about her. Willingly or not, her own behavior in going to Rochenard had given rise to the ugly gossip. But Pierre had hoped to put his past behind him, and she had brought fresh disgrace to his name. She felt unworthy of him.
 

On Sunday, the fourteenth of November, Louis announced that the court was leaving for Versailles upon the next day. It was rumored that Torcy had been closeted with his majesty; immediately afterward, the Spanish ambassador had been informed by the foreign minister that he was to be at Versailles on Monday evening. The courtiers were now in a ferment. Already the king had had several long private conversations with Monsieur d’Anjou; it was whispered that four grandees were already on their way from Spain to escort their new king to his capital. Rouge instructed the grumbling Emilie to pack for Versailles; her curiosity and interest at this historic occasion would not permit her to miss it. Public coaches were at a premium, but she persuaded Clarisse and her husband, the Comte de Beaucastel, to make room for her and Emilie in their carriage.
 

On Monday evening she had a quiet supper in her rooms at Versailles, then decided to go down to the grand
galerie
and the state apartments to see if there was any more news on the king’s decision. There would be scores of courtiers milling about and discussing the latest rumors. Despite her own problems, she found it fascinating. She hurried down a staircase, then through a series of small connecting rooms that would take her to the
galerie.
 

In one of the rooms she stopped abruptly, her hand to her bosom, her heart pounding wildly. Pierre had just come in by another door. He was accompanied by three or four other nobles, with Colinet at his elbow. Deep in conversation with his companions, he didn’t see her for a moment. Her eyes could scarcely get enough of him. He was thin and pale, and walked with a slight limp, but he’d never looked more beautiful to her. He was wearing a deep brown velvet suit, wonderfully cut, with a lacy scrollwork of gold braid about the cuffs and hem. Every detail of his costume, from the light dusting of powder on his own red-brown hair to the simple taffeta sash that held his ceremonial sword, was so restrained in comparison to the overdressed, bewigged peacocks who had come into the room with him, that the eye was immediately drawn to him. He looked up and saw her. His green eyes narrowed. He murmured something to his companions, who quickly withdrew; when Colinet would have lingered, a cautioning hand on Pierre’s arm, he waved his secretary away. He limped slowly toward her. “Madame,” he said quietly.