French Passion (27 page)

“Old Lucien?” I asked uncertainly.

“It be me.”

His rain-wet toothless face was grim. And I knew to him, I would always and eternally be a bad 'un.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Don't worry, I wouldn't of come, not to the likes of you, but there be a message for you.” And he shoved a letter into my hand. I opened the unsealed, uncrested paper.

I must speak to you on a matter concerning your brother
.

The ink had run, but still I recognized the powerful, commanding strokes of the unsigned writing. Dizzy, I pulled back under the eaves. I was surprised at the authority the Comte's writing had over me.

Old Lucien glanced around, hissing unnecessarily. “It be from the Comte de Créqui. He didn't want anyone else to see it. Except you. ‘Give this to Mademoiselle d'Epinay into her own hands.' That was his very words.”

The Comte, I knew, was being protective.

“Thank you,” I whispered through numb lips. “Did he say anything about my brother?”

Old Lucien was staring at the wineshop sign. The paint had peeled, and the wood underneath was dark with rain. “So now you live where you be plying your trade, in a cheap wineshop.”

“Did he say anything about my brother?” I repeated.

“The Comte said you was to come to his palace, that's all. I'm to bring you back. Not let you be on the streets without protection, he says. Hah! The streets be where you belong.”

The dizziness was still on me, otherwise I'd have cut him short. I looked down at damp paper. Blurred letters jumped out at me:
concerning your brother
.

Had I been less worried about Jean-Pierre, I would have waited for André I would have told him where I was going. Would André, with his jealousy, have permitted me to go? Would he have insisted on accompanying me? I don't know, and at that time these questions didn't enter my head. My mind was jumping with the childhood prayer I'd made during Jean-Pierre's too frequent illnesses:
Please, God, let my brother be all right, Mary, Mother of God, let my brother be all right
.

I set down the basket and we started, Old Lucien keeping a purposeful step from me. My anxiety made me deaf and blind, and I didn't try to keep to the shelter of buildings, I stepped into puddles.

We had come to a square with an equestrian statue, near the Tuileries Palace, before I was thinking clearly enough to wonder what it would be like, seeing the Comte. Between us were those eternal, tortuous months in the Bastille, and I had a slight fear that being with him would bring on one of those terrifying blank times when I didn't inhabit my body.

A very thin young boy approached us. His cheap cotton cockade had run, the red, white, and blue mingling into a murky violet. He held open his coat, hawking, “Égalité's latest poem! Read it for only a sou!”

I fished a sou from my pocket, handed it to the boy, and gripped the yellow sheet in my hand. I'd read the poem in our sitting room, right after André had written it, and seeing the familiar words comforted me. I'll see the Comte long enough to find out about Jean-Pierre, that's all, I thought.

A drenched stream of people was passing between the gates to the gardens of the Tuileries Palace; they were going to watch their majesties dine, a daily public spectacle that had been transferred from Versailles. If you went down that street, the third on the left, and up a narrow cul-de-sac, you came to a house where CoCo once had laughed, showing seven milk teeth.

It was a long walk, and Old Lucien never had been one for prolonged silence. He began to chatter.

“The Comte likes me,” he said proudly. “There don't be many he can trust, not since the Comtesse died four months back.”

“She died?”

“Eating a strawberry tart she was, and all of a sudden she clasped her chest, her eyes popped, she gave a gasp.” He made a deep, rasping sound. “And her chair toppled over. Dead she be.”

“Mmmm.”

Old Lucien added spitefully, “Oh, the Comte's never gotten over the loss.”

I'll bet, I thought, remembering how the Comte had spent his wedding night.

“Her be a cousin to King Louis himself,” Old Lucien informed me. And on and on, as if by working for the Comte and Comtesse de Créqui he had conferred nobility on himself. But why would anyone want to be nobility nowadays? Or had I been living in St. Antoine too long? Was there another world where royalty and nobility were respected? I thought of the crowd hurrying in the rain to see the King and Queen dining.

“The Comtesse, her be buried in St. Sulpice, near old King Louis himself. She be a great lady.”

We were on the broad avenue. Behind dripping trees I glimpsed vast slate roofs. Soon we would be at the Comte's palace. My amorphous insecurities about seeing him grew more solid. What does it matter, I asked myself. All that's important is knowing about Jean-Pierre.

Old Lucien rang the bell of the trade gate. “The Comte told me to bring you this way,” he said with malice.

“Old Lucien,” I said, “you can stop talking in that tone. Haven't you done me harm enough?”

“You'd still be where you belongs if rabble wasn't ruling.”

And two lackeys ran from the gatehouse.

The rain-soaked grounds were overgrown, the grass high, the bushes tangled, the maze untrimmed. We walked up the long gravel drive, huge drops gathering on bare chestnut tree branches to fall on us.

Even before Old Lucien rang the bell of the large arched side entrance, a liveried footman was opening the door.

For some reason I'd expected the Comte's palace to be as desolate as the grounds. This rear hall had been freshly painted. The footman's livery was new, crimson and white. He occasionally had served at my salon, and I greeted him by name.

“Mademoiselle d'Epinay,” he said, “the Comte requests you wait until he's free.”

“He sent for me! I must see him now!”

“He requests you make yourself comfortable. By then, he'll be able to see you.”

I wanted to shout angry demands. But what was the point? I'd only be arguing with a perfectly nice young footman doing his job. The Comte had given orders. From the past I knew the Comte was obeyed—not only by his servants, but by almost everyone, including the King. I'd often been disobedient. Now, though, the Comte, for whatever reasons, insisted I cool my dripping heels. I had no choice other than to wait.

The footman begged to take my drenched shawl, the equally sopping knitted one. He also took the wad of yellow paper, André's poem. At this respectful treatment of me, Old Lucien, leaving a trail of wet footprints, slunk toward the basement kitchens. The footman led me up to the rooms I'd used my first weeks in Paris.

The antechamber was fragrant with hothouse white roses arranged in a porcelain bowl. White roses were my favorite flower. Behind me the door closed discreetly, and I went into the bedroom. A lavish fire blazed, and on the mantlepiece more white roses spread their artless scent. The silken doors to the boudoir were open. A short, stout maid—I didn't recognize her—was filling the foot-shaped bath with steaming kettles.

Turning, she cried, “You're drenched to the skin, Mademoiselle d'Epinay!”

“But you don't know me.”

“I'm here to help you,” she said.

Bemused, I stared around. The rooms had been refurbished in the delicate informal style that was my preference. Stiff brocade bed curtains had been replaced with a foamy veil of the Brussels lace that I'd used profusely in my old house. The chaise longue had been reupholstered with my favorite color, pale green silk in which a silvery-white floral design had been woven. There was a profusion of the pretty little enamel boxes and crystal scent flacons that I'd adored. Under the steaming bath, the white bearskin rug was thick, as I liked. The rooms were enchantment. A suite from
Beauty and the Beast
where Beauty's every wish has been magically anticipated. I was cold, wet, shivering. I ached to hear about Jean-Pierre, but was resigned to not hearing until the Comte was ready to talk to me.

I gave myself over to magic.

The maid stripped off my wet clothes and helped me into scented hot water. She shampooed my hair, handed me out of the tub, dried me in a thick towel, anointed my body with a light scent, polished dry the separate strands of my hair. And all the time she was exclaiming about the silken texture, the whiteness of my skin, the exquisite shape of my breasts and buttocks. I'd gained back most of my weight, but my waist—she said—needed no corset. My hair, she said, was the color of a sunstruck white cloud. On and on and on. From her deft touch I knew she was a highly skilled lady's maid, far better trained than Izette. I wondered aloud if she'd served the late Comtesse.

“I never knew her ladyship,” the garrulous little woman replied. “The Comte de Créqui's majordomo hired me last week. And how lucky I was! My mistress had just emigrated to Weimar. I've been downstairs in the servants' hall until two hours ago. Then I was told you were coming.”

The curling irons were heating as she finished drying my hair in front of the fire. The Comte had gone to tremendous effort to accomplish his magic. Why? And how had he known I'd come here alone? What did he hope would come from this? Did he want me back? Did he imagine to make me forget the Bastille? Did he know about André? Questions darted in my head, unanswered. I didn't even try to answer them. The Comte had always been incomprehensible to me. I could more easily decipher an ancient and unknown language like Egyptian than fathom his motives in decorating these rooms to my exact taste. I sat back in my silken chemise, part of me surrendering to the warmth and luxury, the other part of me in a ferment about Jean-Pierre.

The maid brought out heeled slippers of patterned silk. They fit perfectly. She was taking a floaty green silk from the armoire.

“Or would you prefer this?” She held up a formal but equally lovely darker green velvet trimmed with Valenciennes lace. These weren't my old gowns, and I was sure that Monsieur Sancerre, who paid me to color his sketches, had no knowledge of them. Maybe, I thought whimsically, these dresses've appeared by magic, too, and they'll disappear if I clap my hands.

The pale green silk fitted well enough to have been made by a sorcerer.

The maid opened a pretty silver jewel box.

And I gasped. This truly was magic.

For she was holding up my opal necklace. The d'Epinay opals that Izette had pried loose, one by one, from their setting to pay for Aunt Thérèse's last illness.

“It doesn't please your ladyship?”

“Yes … it's a copy of one that belonged to me, my favorite piece of jewelry.”

It was after dusk. And the footman knocked at the door.

“Mademoiselle d'Epinay, the Comte regrets this delay, and asks the pleasure of your company at your earliest convenience.”

I descended the marble staircase. Overhead, rosy gods and goddesses pointed to the great chandelier with its hundreds of lit tapers that reflected glittery balls and faceted drops until the blaze of light was that of an indoor sun. A dislocating wrench to be here after our mean little rooms. Too, it was impossible to convince myself I wasn't sixteen and on my way to the terrifying and important noble who'd selected me as his bride. My mouth had that same dryness. Once again I touched the opals, thinking of André. I was engaged now, even if secretely, to the man I'd loved then, and loved still, a man who'd dedicated himself to ending this extravagant way of life for the very few.

Yet … despite my love for André, deep inside me stirred a flicker of admiration. The Comte de Créqui hadn't changed his colors to suit the day. Unlike his King, the Comte never would put on a tawdry red-white-and-blue cockade.

The two footmen opened the study doors.

Chapter Ten

The Comte sat cutting the pages of a book.

Slowly he put down the ivory paper knife. His clever monkey face grew drawn and white, as if he'd suffered a mortal wound.

I imagine I faced him with the same pallor. Too much had passed between us for indifference. Not just the endless torment of solitary confinement. There were the hours I'd lain naked in his arms and his passion had often infected me. Our shared laughter. His loving me, teaching me, spoiling me. CoCo's birth and death.

As I gazed into his black-grape eyes, a paroxysm of guilt passed through me. But why should I feel guilt? It took me less than a blink to understand.

André had accused me of not marrying him because of my lingering bondage to the older man. My vulnerability to the Comte betrayed André.

Doors closed softly behind me.

The Comte bowed. “How do you do, my dear. You're even more lovely, et cetera, et cetera. Or shouldn't I begin by enumerating your charms.” Though his face remained bloodless, his voice was flippant.

“What about Jean-Pierre?” I demanded.

“Ah, your impatience. I'd forgotten the impulsive streak. But how can we let this past year be without mention?” Was that a shade of anxiety in his mocking tone? “Aren't you going to berate me for your time in the Bastille? Or did you find it a pleasant rest between lovers and regimes?”

I shivered. How could he, even with his mordant wit, joke about such misery? “It was as you wished, Comte. I longed for death.”

“If it's any consolation, so did I.” His voice went deep. “I've been in hell.”

A glance of suffering linked us. I struggled against the old tie.

“I don't pretend to understand the game you're playing,” I said crisply. “The refurbished rooms, the maid. New clothes. And I don't care to know. I'm here to find out about my brother.”

He held out an envelope. I tore it from his hand.

The letter, two pages long, was filled with examples of Jean-Pierre's indifferent spelling. Unconsciously I smiled, remembering a boy escaping his nearsighted tutor's cane. Jean-Pierre wrote that there were many émigrés, so he'd found a decent French society amid the barbarism that was London. He and his cohorts were planning means to bring France back to order. As he elaborated on these plans, I sensed his unhappiness. He was like a child whistling in the dark to keep up his courage. Each sentence resounded with lonely hopelessness.