Daughters of the Storm (22 page)

‘Will you miss me,
ma chère?'

‘Of course, monsieur,' Héloïse said politely.

De Choissy's expression became serious.

‘I want you to take these,' he said, and proffered a packet of documents wrapped in red ribbon.

‘What are they?' she asked, as she examined the densely written paper.

‘Copies of bank drafts and deeds of transfer for our properties. If you or I, together or separately, need to leave the country, these will provide us with funds in either Germany or Holland and ensure that our properties in France are transferred to our incognitos. You will see that there is a passport made out in the name of Madame Fauconnier. You must use it if necessary.'

Héloïse stared at her husband. ‘You
are
planning to leave,' she said accusingly. ‘Without consulting me?'

De Choissy gazed out of the window. A pulse beat at his temple. ‘I need hardly remind you that you are my wife, and that you will do as I wish.'

‘A wife, yes, but not entirely without rights. I have no wish to leave France and, what is more, I do not intend to do so.'

De Choissy's eyes sparked dangerously. A horse strained at the harness and rocked the coach and he grasped at the strap to steady himself.

‘Now, why, I wonder? No.' He held up his hand to prevent her replying. ‘Spare me your patriotic diatribe. It does not convince me one little bit. In the end, most people prefer to save their skins, and preferably in comfort. You are very blinkered if you don't see which way the wind is blowing. But I am convinced that is not the case. May I remind you, Héloïse, that you have not yet provided me with an heir?'

‘Perhaps, monsieur, the fault is not entirely mine?' Héloïse shot the words out without really thinking, and regretted them.

De Choissy's voice went cold.

‘You are under an obligation to me,
ma chère,'
he said, ‘until you do provide me with an heir, and i will not countenance any evasion of that obligation. I trust that you understand me?'

Héloïse nodded. ‘Perfectly,' she said.

De Choissy relaxed. ‘Meanwhile,' he said, ‘you will oblige me by looking after these papers until I return.'

Héloïse held the packet reflectively between her fingers and then slipped it into her pocket. De Choissy tapped on the coach roof with his cane and the coachman came round to let down the steps. Héloïse made to descend, but de Choissy's arm restrained her.

‘No word of farewell, Héloïse?'

She sighed and looked at him, troubled by the implication of his gesture and saddened by the hostility that cloaked her dealings with him. Full of their world-weary secrets, his eyes challenged hers, as if willing her to rebel. She felt her old repugnance rising. What was the point of her trying to understand someone so complicated and so vicious, and who used her so badly?

‘I wish you a safe journey,' was all she said, and alighted into the courtyard without a backward glance. De Choissy remained motionless for a moment longer while he watched her. Then he tapped once more with his cane and the horses moved forward.

The Tuileries Palace was not easy for anyone to find their way around, not even those who knew it well. Situated between the huge Louvre buildings which fronted the river and the Rue St Honoré to the north, the palace was masked on its eastern aspect by a jumble of houses and alleys surrounding the Place du Carrousel which lay in front of the palace courtyard. On the west side of the palace a tree-dotted garden ran down to the Place Louis XV. The entrance was guarded by high terraces and by a swing bridge over the moat. Beyond the Place Louis XV stretched the Champs Élysées. To the north of the gardens, which were skirted by the Terrasse des Feuillants, lay the royal stables, or Manège, which now housed the National Assembly, and beyond that were the ancient religious houses belonging to the Capuchins and Feuillants. A narrow passage leading from the gardens to the Rue St Honoré ran between them. On the south side of the gardens, a breast-high wall ran alongside the river.

Freezing in winter, stifling in summer, rabbit-warrened with passages, entresols and staircases which had been thrown up by the pensioners, artists, actors and soldiers who had infested the building until the summary arrival of the royal family when they were hastily evicted, the palace now housed the court – the king's cupbearer, the officers of the king's roast, the fire attendant, the queen's German baker, doctors, surgeons, apothecaries, officials and functionaries of every description. In short, an army of expensive and, to the inquisitive Parisians, useless servants.

Because it knew of no other way, the court did its best to preserve a semblance of normality and to resume its butterfly existence. The corridors echoed to the same gossip as they had done at Versailles, and jockeying for position and intrigue continued unchecked. But now a new element had crept into the atmosphere, an unease that undercut the formalities and subterranean power struggles. The fear that asked, ‘What next?' was never publicly voiced, but it was there nevertheless.

And all the time, despite the Assembly's punitive decrees against
émigrés,
the big berlines and coaches, laden with possessions, servants and their aristocratic owners, lumbered down the road towards Brussels or the German border into havens which rapidly became stifling and despairing outposts of France on foreign soil. ‘To be an
émigré
or not?' The question was debated with increasing urgency by the dwindling numbers of courtiers who sensed that their privileges were slipping away like so many grains of sand...

Héloïse had never considered for one moment that she would join them. Too much of what she loved and cared for lay in Paris. Her world, and her understanding, was French and, besides, she did not care very much at the moment what happened to her, or so she told herself. Raw and wounded as she was by her marriage, her instincts revolted at the thought of flight. Or perhaps it was at the thought of abandoning all hope of seeing Louis d'Epinon again?

She also had her duties to consider. The depletion in the ranks of the queen's household had resulted in her promotion to the post of lady-in-waiting much sooner than she had been led to expect, and she was often called from the Hôtel de Choissy to take on extra tours of duty at a moment's notice. Héloïse was glad of it, even though the elaborate rituals and enforced waiting around required a degree of self-discipline and physical fortitude which left her exhausted.

‘Do not face Her Majesty with your face in the full light,' one of the older ladies had warned her. ‘The queen does not like to be reminded that she is getting older.'

‘You may not feel ill,' confirmed another.

‘You may not sneeze, blow your nose or adjust your clothing. Do not, above all, faint,' added a third.

The strictures came thick and fast and the dos and don'ts were innumerable. Rushing to find a place in chapel, walking behind the queen in a careful line according to rank, sitting on the lowest and smallest of stools while the king and queen ate, queueing to have one's hair done by Léonard – the formalities were endless and wearisome, but Héloïse, feeling that it was important for the court to continue as it always had, bore them ungrudgingly.

She had been, of course, formally presented to the queen earlier. Robed in a pale straw-coloured silk dress trimmed with rows of blonde lace and wearing the de Choissy waterfall of diamonds at her throat, she had curtsied to the pale, anxious face with its slightly bulging eyes and murmured replies to the polite but uninterested questions put to her in Marie-Antoinette's accented French. The queen was now too careworn and busy with her political intrigues and with the heroic business of rallying her lacklustre husband to care greatly about the welfare of one of her less important ladies. Nevertheless, Héloïse had felt the force of her charm, and her heart had contracted in pity for one who was so beleaguered.

De Choissy had been pleased at her appointment and most insistent that she perform her tasks to the letter.

‘I need your eyes and ears, madame,' he said. ‘And, of course, I know I can rely on your first loyalty to me.'

His voice dared her to contradict him.

‘But of course,' replied Héloïse coolly. She was becoming daily more adept at playing the games with which, she had come to see, de Choissy liked to tease her. Games to do with the power shifts at court – and the games between an ill matched husband and wife. Although why Héloïse imagined that her marriage would bring her anything but a formal union of interests was to demonstrate naivety and ignorance.

‘Bien,'
said her husband. ‘Then, I shall expect a full report at frequent intervals.'

Héloïse now realised why. De Choissy was anxious to save his own skin.

Deep in thought, she mounted the staircase, pausing occasionally to permit messengers to overtake her, or to allow ministers to go past on their way to and from meetings. At the top, she paused in front of her favourite painting, a small, age-darkened portrait of a young woman. Héloïse looked at it often, and marvelled at the skill of the painter who had caught his subject with such subtlety and intuition. The girl in the picture was young, but also hauntingly world-weary and sad, and she never failed to touch a chord in Héloïse.

She was so absorbed was she that she did not at first notice a detachment of soldiers push past, or the officer who halted behind her.

‘At last!' said a voice.

Héloïse swung round.

Louis d'Epinon...

A smile flew to her lips. ‘Oh...' she said.

She was so frail-looking, he thought, but her dark hair hadn't changed. Nor, of course, had the beautiful bones beneath her translucent skin. She was very thin, her bosom only just swelling the low-cut neckline of her muslin gown, her waist hardly filling its folds – and he saw that all trace of gaiety had vanished from her eyes. He remembered her courage and sweetness at Versailles, and a rush of longing swept over him.

Louis ordered his men to continue, and waited until they were out of sight.

‘Are you well?' he asked, his composure deserting him.

‘Quite well,' she answered, wishing she had something witty or significant to say – anything to keep him standing there for a moment longer.

Louis had no intention of leaving. ‘Madame la Comtesse...,' he began.

‘Monsieur le Capitaine...,' she began.

‘Yes,' he said softly.

‘I was only going to enquire if you were quite recovered from the injury you received at Versailles. But I see that you have. It has been a long time,' she added, a trifle wistfully.

Louis brushed a hand over his forehead.

‘I suffer from headaches occasionally, but nothing insupportable. Of course, my fine scar will be with me for life.'

Héloïse longed to touch his forehead where the mark of his wound still showed faintly pink, and to smooth it under her fingers.

‘But I mustn't detain you...,' he said.

‘I am happy that you do so,' she said, because it was the truth.

‘Are you?' he asked. ‘Are you happy to see me?'

Héloïse straightened her thin shoulders.

‘Oh, yes,' she said, very simply.

‘Can I see you again?' Louis asked. ‘I cannot talk to you here.'

Héloïse hesitated. ‘Why?' she replied, determined to be sure that her intuition was not deceiving her.

Louis paused. ‘You know as well as I,' he said at last.

Héloïse's eyelids snapped down over eyes that were suddenly radiant with light.

‘I have to think,' she said. ‘There are things...'

‘Of course,' said Louis. ‘But will you meet me all the same?'

Héloïse's fingers closed round the packet in her skirts, but within seconds she had made up her mind.

‘I have a box at the opera tomorrow night,' she said. ‘Would you care to make up the numbers? It is Piccinni.'

Louis brought his heels smartly together and bowed. ‘I would be delighted,' he said. ‘Until tomorrow, then.'

Dressed in pale primrose satin over a spangled white satin underskirt with its waist cut fashionably high and its back very narrow, Héloïse took her place in the box the following evening knowing that she looked her best. She wore a favourite diamond aigrette in her hair, offset by three ostrich plumes, and in her ears and on her breast sparkled the de Choissy diamonds.

Sophie was pleased; she had never seen Héloïse look so animated or so carefree. She glanced down at her own gown of palest violet and smoothed her gloves over her arms. Tonight was Héloïse's night and she was happy to take second place. Besides, William had invited himself to supper after the opera and she wanted to sit and listen to the music in pleasurable anticipation, content to let Héloïse and Louis, resplendent in a suit of dark blue silk, enjoy an uninterrupted conversation.

Can I do this? questioned Héloïse as the opening chords struck up and the snuffed candles dimmed the auditorium into intimacy. She knew Louis was watching her and had deliberately arranged his chair so that it was close to hers. Her nerves prickled both elation and warning. Should I let this happen? Never before had the music seemed so sweet or so full of yearning, the harmony so unearthly, or the human voice so beautiful and she found herself transported to a paradise of sound where she yearned to remain. When it was over, Héloïse was left with a lump in her throat.

Her mood did not remain with her for long, and by the time they were seated in one of the fashionable eating houses near the Palais Royal, where William joined them, it had changed to one of elation. Her appetite had fled, and she only nibbled at her plate of veal seethed in almond milk and toyed with a mouthful of fresh spinach. But the wine, heavy, fruity and tasting of the sun, slipped down and did its usual tricks of softening and relaxing the mood.

Louis could not keep his eyes off Héloïse and he watched her carefully. Whatever the future would bring, it was reward enough to hear her laugh in the here and the now with genuine amusement. He suspected that she had little of humour, latterly at least, in her life. Keeping up a flow of effortless conversation, he parried quips with wit and contributing some well-timed anecdotes. Not least, he relaxed himself, glad to be away from the Tuileries and its sad occupants.