Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow (36 page)

Before the splendid meal began, the marquise de Boulainvilliers had presented Jeanne to their host, explaining that she had taken the young woman and her sister under her roof when they were children—“Orphaned waifs, begging by the side of the King’s Highway; I insisted that my husband the marquis halt our carriage. Tell the cardinal,
ma chère
, what your mother had taught you to say to people.”

Jeanne needed little prompting. Aware, from the appraising glint in his dark eyes, that the prince de Rohan, suave and handsome, though graying at the temples and reeking of costly perfume, had already assumed a certain interest in her welfare, she repeated the litany that had put coins in their pockets and crusts of bread on their table. Widening her eyes and proffering her upturned palm as she had done countless times during her impoverished youth, she said “Kind lady, kind gentleman, take pity on a little orphan child who descends in a direct line from Henri the Second, one of your country’s greatest kings.”

The presence of an actual descendant of the Valois went to Rohan’s head like strong drink. The cardinal took the comtesse’s hands in his and, pressing them with an insistence that scarcely concealed his attraction, urged her to tell him more about her origins.

“My father was wrongfully imprisoned for debts and died soon after his release,” Jeanne said softly. “Maman, who had once been a lowly serving wench in my grandfather’s household, took up with a lover who thought to usurp Papa’s place. And then she abandoned us entirely.”

Visibly moved by her sorrowful tale, the forty-nine-year-old cardinal claimed her attention for the better part of the evening, stirred by the notion that he might somehow do some service to the charming Valois.

Flattery opened men’s doors. Comtesse de Lamotte-Valois admired the unusual signet ring he wore on his pinky, a massive solitaire engraved with the Rohan crest.

“
Merveilleux
, isn’t it,” the cardinal agreed enthusiastically. “But its provenance is even more remarkable.” Gesturing toward his perpetual guest of honor, who was deep in conversation with Jeanne’s benefactress Madame de Boulainvilliers, he added, “Count Cagliostro made it for me—created it out of thin air! I saw him do it, madame la comtesse—never removed my eyes from his crucible! It defies every known science. You may have heard the rumors—that he is hoodwinking me and exploiting my patronage for his own ends. But I can assure you that it’s nothing but
médisance
from a cadre of malcontents who wish me nothing but ill. The most reputable jewelers in France have estimated the worth of this diamond at twenty-five thousand francs. So, I put it to you, madame de Lamotte-Valois”—the last word tasted like honey on his tongue—“how could Cagliostro be a swindler or a charlatan?” And before she could reply, the cardinal offered to escort her to the count’s secret atelier under the eaves.

“He makes gold as well as diamonds,” the prince de Rohan said breathlessly, his eyes shimmering with covetousness. He lowered his voice and clasped the comtesse’s hands in his. “Five or six thousand francs’ worth he manufactured right before my
eyes—and he will make much more, rendering me the richest man in Europe. It is not a trick, I assure you; Cagliostro has mastered the skill of transmuting base metals into purest gold.”

Jeanne de Lamotte-Valois bit her tongue, quietly marveling at how one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, the most celebrated descendant of an ancient and venerated family, could be so gullible. She had no doubt that Cagliostro’s alchemy was little better than a circus trick, but the sheer force of his magnetic personality, combined with the cardinal’s utter willingness to believe whatever he wished to see and hear, and de Rohan’s evident avarice despite his substantial wealth, had managed to render the cardinal-prince a puppet in the mountebank’s clever hands.

The prince de Rohan invited comtesse de Lamotte-Valois to call upon him the following day, but rather than hear her entire tale of woe in one of his numerous public rooms, he escorted her to his boudoir,
le salon des singes
, a chamber more opulent than that of any Eastern potentate. Jeanne had never seen anything quite so exotic. The white paneling was accented with ornately carved and gilded boiserie; on the upper panels the Chinoiserie paintings depicted recognizable members of the French court, including the queen, garbed in Oriental robes. The lower panels were decorated with cavorting monkeys—
les singes
—limned in every conceivable position, most of them lascivious. The beasts’ tails were suggestive of the male organ, and in fact one of the monkeys was depicted in a scarlet robe, daintily lifting his tail out of the way so that he might snuff out a candle with his furry derrière.

Jeanne had lived by her wits for most of her life. That the Grand Almoner of France should sleep here, in a room all but designed for debauchery, provided yet another key to the man’s character. And when this prince of the church conducted her to the vast bed and, sitting beside her, urged her to tell him everything
about herself, she handily summoned a tear or two to her eye and a rosy blush to her cheeks.

“The pension granted by His Majesty is extremely modest; my husband and I cannot support ourselves on eight hundred francs a year. Nicolas tendered his resignation when the commander of his regiment tried to force himself upon me. Life has since been very difficult, monsieur,” Jeanne confessed, her lips aquiver. “I should very much wish for an increase to the royal pension, but it is my life’s mission to recover our ancestral lands—the Fontette estates in Bar-sur-Aube in Champagne,” she told him. “For until the king grants me the permission to reclaim them, the comte and I are compelled to decamp from one apartment to another, each more squalid than the last.”

It wasn’t entirely the truth, but the comtesse knew when to spin a fanciful web around her prey. Within moments, the cardinal had clasped her hands in his, bringing her closer to his breast. “I wish you had said something sooner, last night, even, for it pains me to see you in such distress when I could have relieved you of many moments’ agony.” He rose from the bed and unlocked a chest embellished with handpainted Sèvres plaques. Removing a purse stuffed to bursting with gold coins, he bestowed it on the comtesse, urging her to call upon him as often as she wished, whether in Strasbourg, Paris, or Versailles. “I assure you, madame, I shall forward your affairs at court at the first opportunity. With your illustrious name, not to mention your considerable personal charms,” he added, with a longing glance at her small but perfectly proportioned bosom, “it should be a simple matter to effect restitution of your property at Fontette. And in return,” becoming agitated and breathless the longer he gazed at her, he added, “you must promise to give me your complete … confidence.”

Both parties knew it would not be long before the comtesse
would give him considerably more than that. Jeanne feigned a demure smile and favored her new benefactor with a doe-eyed look of gratitude. An understanding had been reached.

Throughout the summer Count von Fersen had been corresponding with his father in Sweden in an effort to forestall his return. It had not been my suggestion to find a way for him to remain in France, but once Axel had confided his plan to purchase the Royal Suédois, the regiment of Swedish mercenaries in the service of the king, I would have done anything within my power to help him obtain his dream. Whereas other courtiers most often spoke to me of banalities or endeavored to amuse me, Axel did neither of these things. Not being a Frenchman he lacked both reason and need to ingratiate himself with me, because he could hold no office at court. True, I enjoyed frivolity, but I enjoyed a respite from it in equal measure, and the Count von Fersen supplied it. He and I alone discussed weightier and more personal matters. We each had a domineering parent, forever chastising us, and a sister we adored. I never confided as I did to Axel with the likes of Coigny, Besenval, or even Lauzun, for secrets were currency at Versailles and I was too easily compromised by a friend who might one day become an enemy.

The count and I had gone boating in the Grand Canal on a listless afternoon. Insistent midges hovered above the blue-green water; when they came too close to the boat, attracted perhaps by the scent of my orange flower water or by the fresh blooms I wore in my hair according to the current fashion, I endeavored to fan them away.

“Papa tells me I am being selfish in asking him for a loan. He accuses me of pursuing a foolish and arrogant luxury.” Axel exhaled a ponderous sigh, and rested the oars in their brackets. The rowboat bobbed a bit and began to float along of its own volition,
borne by the gentle breeze that riffled the placid surface of the water. Reaching into his pocket, he handed me the most recent letter from his father.

The elder count’s letter reminded me of so many scoldings from Maman that my heart ached for Axel. “I wish to help you,” I said softly. “Perhaps it is selfish of me, but I would be tremendously gratified to think that I might see you more often were you to command the Royal Suédois. Have you written to Gustavus?” I asked him, aware that his sovereign might be persuaded to intercede with Senator Fersen.

Axel nodded. “As soon as I received that letter from Papa, I put pen to paper. And I understand that Gustavus has corresponded with the King of France regarding the matter.”

Louis had enough to occupy him; as it was he spent sleepless nights in his library poring over documents and decrees. We had not slept together as husband and wife in several months and neither of us seemed to miss the other’s presence.

“I will answer Gustavus’s letter myself,” I promised Axel. At this, illuminated with gratitude, his countenance brightened considerably. He leaned forward to kiss me, but under the open sky with so many courtiers milling about the banks of the Grand Canal, I was certain we were being watched. “I must read your thanks in your eyes rather than receive it from your lips,” I murmured.

“Éléphant!”
cried Madame Royale, pointing to the baby pachyderm giving himself a mud bath in his enclosure at the royal menagerie. Frowning at the animal, she pouted. “I wish you and
madame la gouvernante
would let me play like that.”

“I am certain that Madame de Polignac will scold me for allowing you to become quite dirty enough as it is.” Her chubby hands were sticky with a marzipan candy she had been savoring for the better part of our excursion. “Would you like to push your brother for a while?”

Not yet five years old, but with all the arrogance of an older sister, Mousseline shook her head. “He’s heavy. It makes me too tired.” I knelt down and tucked an errant curl under her linen cap.

“
Ça va
, then. Your job will be to point out all the animals.” We continued to stroll about the circular walks that surrounded the charming Baroque pavilion of the menagerie. Beyond the path lay the separate enclosures, cages, and stables for each of the exotic beasts.

“Tigre!”
Madame Royale raced to the edge of the path and peered over the low wall. Safely beyond it lay the enclosure for
the large cats. I wheeled the wicker carriage bearing her younger brother, the dauphin. Although Louis Joseph was nearly two years old, he lacked the strength to walk about the menagerie on his own. My son was happily humming to himself, sucking on his fingers and enjoying the warm late summer air as he absorbed the sights.

Mousseline gazed at the large striped cat, as beautiful as she was feral. We watched her for several moments: the graceful stride of her lithe limbs; the uniqueness of her markings; her proud head and emerald eyes daring us to admire her.

“Why is she your favorite, Maman?” my daughter asked, tugging at my skirt with almond candy fingers.

“Because,
ma petite
, as fond as I am of beautiful things, no amount of artifice could duplicate the magnificence—and power—of a tigress.” I think, too, because the stunning beast possessed qualities I envied, even coveted for myself; but I could not admit as much to my impressionable child. At that moment, I realized the creature reminded me of my mother. For so many years I had chafed against her myriad admonitions, only to begrudgingly acknowledge, years after I became a maman, that she had been the wisest woman I’d ever known.

“Where is the lion?” inquired Madame Royale, trotting toward the adjacent enclosure. He was sunning himself on the large rock at the center of his habitat, his glorious mane resting upon his great front paws. Mousseline giggled. “The king of the beasts is fast asleep, just like Papa. He is my favorite because he is big and slow and throws his head back and yawns and stretches just like him.”

I laughed in spite of myself. “You mustn’t say such things. It’s not very nice to the lion, or to your papa, who loves you more than any little girl in the world.”

We resumed our perambulations about the walking path. I
leaned toward the carriage. “Which is your favorite animal, monsieur le dauphin?” He continued to hum happily to himself, but paused to point to the large bird strutting about a sandy enclosure, oblivious to our presence.
“Tru!”
he exclaimed.