The Red Necklace (16 page)

“I observe,” he said, “that standards of dress are slipping. It is a tragedy, the loss of whalebone in corsets. Whalebone gives women such excellent stature. Now the fashion is all for ladies to look like milkmaids in their white muslin gowns, without proper support or lacing. As a result,” he announced, as if it were the most shocking piece of news ever, “women are slouching! So inelegant.”

Sido listened quietly, relieved that there was no need for her to comment, for what could she say to such a kaleidoscope of folly? She had become a silent witness to her father’s idiocy. She realized that, like the king himself, the marquis was out of touch with what was happening all around him. The decadence, the waste continued, and still the poor stayed poor while her father and his acquaintances determinedly danced, dined, gambled, gossiped, and spent their way to disaster.

It was only after the murder of his friend Madame Perrien that the fact that something terrible was happening dawned upon him. By then, it was all too late.

chapter seventeen

It had started with one of the marquis’s extravagances, a grand fête, given for all his friends that late summer after the fall of the Bastille, and designed to take their minds off the tedium of the Revolution.

It was held on an overcast day full of clouds that whirled menacingly, windmill-like, across the sky. The skeleton staff of gardeners who had not yet left for Paris had been obliged to work around the clock, for the marquis refused to acknowledge any change. His only concession to economy had been to hold no parties for the past eight months.

Now that the National Assembly had collectively lost its mind and agreed to pass this ridiculous declaration of the rights of man, he felt it his duty to throw one of his spectacular parties, a reminder, if one was needed, of how preposterous this Revolution was. For the idea that all men were equal was laughable; no one in his right mind could believe it. In his opinion, the sooner the populace was crushed the better.

For the time being the marquis was more concerned about deciding on a theme for his fête, and he called for the painter Etienne Bouchot to design the setting and the winged chariot in which he was to make his entrance.

After days of deliberation he settled on the idea that everyone would come dressed as a character from the Commedia dell’arte: Zannis, or clowns, with interesting costumes and witty masks, were much in fashion. An informal picnic would be held in his Arcadian garden. The guests would be transported across the lake to an Italian piazza, where they would dine and be entertained by jugglers, fire-eaters, and tightrope artists.

The marquis fussed and threw tantrums over every detail of this fête. His fury at finding that the cages had been emptied of birds knew no bounds until one of the gardeners suggested a novel idea that the marquis immediately claimed as his own, and set all his poor tenant farmers to work with butterfly nets.

On the opposite side of the lake a stage was built, while in front of the temple itself a wooden floor was laid and painted to look like a marble piazza. Scores of scene painters, carpenters, and metalworkers were needed to make such an ambitious vision a reality.

The invitations had been sent out, with one notable and fatal exception. The marquis had not asked Count Kalliovski. His reason for leaving the count off the guest list was childish, with, alas, no thought to the consequences. The marquis was bitterly jealous of Count Kalliovski’s new acquaintance with Robespierre, a bourgeois lawyer from Arras, one of the leaders of the Revolution. It was beyond his comprehension as to why the count would want to keep the company of such a humorless, dull man, of little or no consequence. Misguidedly, he believed that once the count discovered he had not been invited to this party, he would come back full of remorse: for how could he ever have risen so high in count circles without the marquis’s help and guidance? You could say the marquis had a talent for rearranging unpalatable truths to suit his narrow point of view.

What concerned him the most at the present time, and had almost turned the pink clouds of his mind gray with worry, was what to wear so as to outshine all his guests. Finally he concluded that none of the characters from the Commedia dell’arte reflected his noble nature or did justice to the ancient name of Villeduval, so he decided upon a costume that would truly enhance the glories of his personality. He would be the sun itself. To create the desired effect, tailors, shoemakers, glovers, and perfumers, fan- and mask-makers, and suppliers of gold and silver stuffs were called for.

All this fevered activity shook the château awake as if it were emerging from a long afternoon’s sleep. The marquis felt alive again, with a total disregard for any form of self-restraint. It was as if the Revolution had only been a glint in a starving man’s eye.

Sido, on hearing that the count was not coming, had felt a huge sense of relief. Now she could enjoy the fête without any worries about her forthcoming betrothal. Yet in all the preparations, her father never once asked to see her, and as the day drew nearer she realized that she had once again been forgotten.

On the eve of the party the marquis, as if at last remembering her, called for Sido to be brought to his chamber.

He was sitting in his dressing robe, his feet in a bowl of rosewater while his fingernails were attended to, a tall glass of champagne in the other hand, and beside him on the table a small pyramid of confectionery.

As the last rays of sunshine broke forth through the shutters, he looked at Sido and said irritably, “Don’t stand there. The light is most unbecoming.” He dusted the corners of his mouth with a napkin and addressed Luc, his valet. “She may observe the party from the side room in the temple, but that is all. I don’t want her wandering about tomorrow. Everything must be charming.” With that he lifted his pampered hand and waved her away.

Not for the first time did Sido wonder why it was that her father disliked his only child so very much.

On the day of the fête, the servants were up at dawn, bringing down long tables and laying them with fine damask, porcelain, and silver. An ice sculpture in the shape of a harlequin was placed in the center, and cut-glass chandeliers were hung from a series of ropes. They looked like strange, elaborate beehives floating in the sky above the tables. All around were urns filled with huge displays of flowers.

Boats shaped like swans and peacocks, their painted wooden feathers splayed out, were brought down to the lake on carts, and sackfuls of pink rose petals were floated gently on the metallic surface of the water.

Before the party started, Sido was taken down to the temple, where a concealed door in the wall was opened to reveal a cubbyhole with a good-sized window to look out of, and a spyhole to see into the temple itself. Gazing out of the window, she was reminded of the toy theater she had had as a small child. The scene before her had the same magical quality.

The orchestra struck up, and the guests began to arrive.

They came as Punchinellos, Scarpinos, Scaramouches, Pantaloons, Pierrots, Columbines. Tumblers and jugglers from the Paris circus performed amongst them, while a tightrope walker in a harlequin costume crossed back and forth above their heads.

At last the marquis made his entrance to the sound of trumpets, his winged chariot pulled by four men dressed in tunics with headdresses in the shape of the sun, their bodies oiled and shining. The marquis was helped out, an apparition in gold silk brocade. He wore a breastplate with the face of the sun on it. His wig was gold, studded with gems. His mask was made of thin gold leaf, and looked as if it had been blown across his face. The effect was dazzling—so much so that the sun might well have decided not to shine, out of envy

From Sido’s vantage point, not only did she have a perfect view of the proceedings, but she could hear equally well all that was being said, for many of the guests came to gossip under the round dome of the temple, where their voices echoed.

By late afternoon the sky had turned the color of iron. Sido watched as the guests floated off in their swan and peacock boats and the footmen surrounding the lake opened baskets, letting out hundreds and hundreds of butterflies that in the eerie light of the oncoming storm looked like jewels taking flight.

The highlight of the afternoon’s entertainment was the arrival of an Italian singer who was enjoying a great success at the Paris Opera House. Her voice soared through the gathering clouds, calling to Zeus himself, who answered in his deep bass voice with a mighty rumble of thunder as lightning forked its way toward the lake, followed by a sudden downpour of torrential rain.

The guests hastily abandoned their tables, spilling wine and knocking over chairs as they ran for cover, tall wigs flopping in the rain. Servants rushed here and there with umbrellas while the guests, like hissing geese, took flight back toward the château. They were followed by the musicians and the opera singer, who waddled behind like a flat-footed duck, her dress trailing in the mud.

Sido watched as the rain washed away the cakes, their pink icing running down damask tablecloths, the weight of the water half sinking the wooden boats that were illuminated, electric white, against the inky darkness of the waters. The scene, so wonderful, so magical at the beginning of the day, lay in ruins.

She was just opening the door of the temple to leave when, to her surprise, she heard her father’s voice above the sound of the rain. He was deep in conversation with a lady. They were taking shelter in the temple—she could see them all too clearly through the crack in the door. Sure that at any moment she would be discovered, she decided that it was best to stay where she was.

“I have no money to repay the count,” said the lady.

“Surely Monsieur Perrien can help you out of your little difficulty,” replied the marquis.

“My husband’s château was destroyed last week by a fire. He has lost everything, and after all he has been through I dare not tell him about my gambling debts. I am terrified of what the count will do. He wrote me a letter on black paper with white ink. You know what that means.”

“There has been a little misunderstanding,” said the marquis. “It signifies nothing.”

“It is no misunderstanding,” said Madame Perrien. “I implore you to lend me the money. You are my last hope. If you do not, I am as good as dead. I promise to repay you.” She reached out to take his hand, but the marquis quickly pulled it away, disgusted.

“Madame, this is no way for a lady of your rank to behave,” he said curtly.

She laughed a hard laugh. “I tell you this, Monsieur le Marquis, not inviting the count was a grave mistake. Do you really think it will be that easy to have nothing more to do with him? I think you will come to regret this oversight bitterly.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about, madame. I advise you to pull yourself together.”

“This is no child’s game we are playing.”

“It is, alas, one of the faults of the weaker sex to take matters of little consequence far too seriously. Madame, my advice to you is that this will resolve itself. Let us go back to the château for a glass of champagne. I find that champagne always lifts the spirits when one is feeling a little flat.”

Madame Perrien was not listening. “The count could destroy all of us if he wanted to!”

“Madame,” said the marquis stiffly, “this has gone far enough.” He tried to step away but was stopped by Madame Perrien, who grabbed hold of his gold costume and collapsed to her knees.

The look of revulsion on the marquis’s face would have been comical if it were not for the seriousness of what Madame Perrien was saying.

“At the beginning I thought, like you, that it was just a silly game. I had to give him something precious in return for the loan. When I explained that I could not give him jewelry as security, he said he wanted no such trinkets, he was after just a few little secrets. I gave him letters; letters which I now fear incriminate me. When I asked for them back he laughed and said he had them under lock and key and would use them to his own advantage if I did not repay him.”

Madame Perrien now had the marquis’s full attention. He took off his gold mask as a flash of lightning skimmed the lake. She let go of his coat and pulled herself up, leaning on the pillar.

“What secrets did
you
give the count, I wonder, in return for his generosity? They must have been worth a king’s ransom that he should have lent you so much. I dread to think what he will want in return.”

The marquis pursed his lips. “This does not apply to me. He did it purely out of friendship.”

Madame Perrien made a mirthless sound. “What folly! Tell me this, then. If he did so much for you as a friend, what do you think he would do if you were to become his enemy? He once told me what his private motto was. Shall I tell you it? ‘Show no mercy, have no mercy.’”

The marquis, who had swum all his life in the shallow waters of polite society, avoiding at all costs any meaningful conversation, suddenly realized that the largest pike in the river was after him. He straightened his back and looked at Madame Perrien coldly.

“I cannot speak for you, madame, though I would say that your dealings with the count have been unwise. Now, if you would excuse me, I must join my other guests.”

Sido watched her father turn his back on Madame Perrien to walk down the steps, where two footmen were waiting with umbrellas to escort him to the château.

“We made a pact with the devil,” she called after him, “and the devil is coming to get us!” The marquis did not turn around. Madame Perrien called louder this time, not caring who heard her. “Count Kalliovski has bought our souls!”

Sido stood frozen to the spot, not daring to move. She could see Madame Perrien holding on to the pillar with her white hand, watching as the marquis walked away. A low rumble of thunder seemed to shake the earth, followed by a flash of lightning that snapped a rope that was holding up one of the glass chandeliers. It crashed down onto the table below, knocking the ice sculpture into the lake. Unforgiving raindrops of glass showered onto the painted marble floor.