Goddess (18 page)

H
E’S A GENTLE MAN
, Max Emanuel. For a soldier. A little too fond of his own greatness, it’s true, and of his own reflection in the glass. A slightly elevated opinion of his prowess as a lover—but that’s not uncommon, I’ve found. Ambitious, yes—but why not? He’s the son and grandson of kings, emperors. At war with everyone now, you know—always did hate those Habsburgs. He’s fled to Versailles, so I hear, to hide behind Louis’s coat-tails, just as he has hidden so many of us in his court over the years.

His weakness—well, frankly, he has several (including an unfortunate chin), which no doubt our own King has now discovered for himself, but his greatest weakness is women. Mine, too, of course, so we had a lot in common.

He has a wife—the daughter of kings herself, so I understand, though I never can keep track of these things. This war they’re having now, this nonsense about the Spanish succession, the business at Blenheim. Who cares? Louis and Max Emanuel, certainly. But who else understands why the Austrians and the French are killing each other over the Spanish crown? What does it have to do with us? With England? You have to be of the Blood, I think, to know who’s related to whom or to care which of your fifteen titles derives from what branch of the family tree. I’m not. I don’t.

But Max Emanuel does, and with good reason. There are endless thrones and titles for him to claim, to inherit, to take by force or charm or espionage. It was an education, I don’t mind telling you, just to be near him—watching how the wheels turn in such a mind, such an empire.

He’s not so different from d’Armagnac, of course. Much younger. Better looking. But they both had armies at their disposal, and hundreds of horses, and mistresses galore, and gold plate, and me. I wonder how he fares now, trapped in the costume party that is Versailles. The third circle of Hell for men like him, like d’Armagnac.

Funny, isn’t it? I’d thought when I left Paris my life would be over. I pictured myself living out some horrid existence in exile. Well, that was to come, sure enough. But in Brussels, I fell on my feet. Or, to be more precise, on my back.

Onto a goose-down mattress.

He looked after me, it’s true. He gave me an apartment in the palace—in the opposite wing to his wife’s, naturally. I had the pick of the stables whenever I wanted to ride, and a new pair of gloves every month. There were servants, dinners, salons, the occasional ball.

So life went in Brussels—singing, mostly, and being polite to old men in drawing rooms on Saturday afternoons, and waiting around in my rooms in case Max Emanuel decided to look in. At first, I thought it was the least I could do. After eight months, the palace felt like a prison and no number of fancy gloves would keep me within those walls on a fine day.

Did I love him? No. Never that. But he was mine, and I defend what is mine. I was like one of those enraged animals in the King’s menagerie, pacing, growling—howling, even—desperate for attention, just as desperately hating every moment of it.

He felt the same. He’s a man of war, of power, like an old charger trapped in the stables. He needs air, blood, cannon and marches. Trumpets. Not harpsichords and lace fans. He needs problems to solve: forage shortages and artillery trajectories. Sieges to raise. Bridges to build. So do I. In my own way.

I’d imagined I’d never again need to be anyone’s mistress. I’d been rich and beloved and thought I’d never have to ask a man for anything ever again. Ingratitude has never been one of my failings. I am only too aware of the thin veil that separates me from hunger, from poverty, to underestimate the value of friendship. But there I was. All because of a kiss, kissing someone else, pleading his indulgence, begging for an afternoon in the sun, a ride in the forest, a moment, a hint. I wanted blood. His, mine—I didn’t care. I wasn’t in my right mind. Fractured, somehow. Furious. I see that now. I hated him, I hated myself, I hated what I had become.

They say I tried to kill myself. What nonsense. I know where the heart is. I never aim for it—not my own, not anyone else’s. If I did, I wouldn’t miss, believe me. But I made a fuss, it’s true. It wasn’t my finest moment.

T
HE CURTAIN RISES
on a row of flaming candles, another dazzling evening. The opening night of
Aeneas
. Everyone in Brussels—the quality—is there. The Elector is in the royal box, as he has been so often over the last few months, because of the singer.

But all is not well between the goddess and the prince, or so the story goes. It swirls around the theatre, the foyer, the streets beyond. The rakes in the
parterre
, the
duchesses
on the benches, the stagehands, the chorus, the flower-sellers outside whisper it to each other.

‘The Elector has taken a new mistress.’

‘I heard. The dancer. Mademoiselle Merville. Is she beautiful?’

‘Pretty. But not prettier than Mademoiselle de Maupin.’

‘Nobody is.’

‘But more …’

‘More feminine.’

‘She’s jealous? I wouldn’t like to be that dancer.’

‘But is the Elector mad? To give her up for some plaything?’

‘True. If she were mine …’

The singer is distraught. Everyone knows it. What will become of her? What will become of us if she leaves? The new mistress is French, is English—perhaps German. A distant cousin. A lady. Beautiful, yes. But not beautiful enough. And married.

The music begins. It doesn’t stop them talking. A German opera, in Italian. That’s modern life in Brussels. It’s mournful, gently moving. As Dido, Queen of Carthage, the French singer struggles a little with the lyrics, but it doesn’t matter; her tone, those long, soft, expressive notes, the breath, the silence between the sounds, the purity, the sorrow—ah!

They are spellbound. They are silent at last. Dido weeps, they weep.

The last scene. Dido must sacrifice herself—for her city, for love. She holds the knife aloft. Four hundred people hold their breath. She stabs at her breast, and again, then falls to the stage.

Stops singing. There’s blood. Nobody has ever seen such brilliant acting. Such special effects. So realistic. So gripping. The other cast members stand in awe. Or something. The crowd is on its feet, applauding, calling out for the final aria.

Until a stagehand runs across to the singer, turns her onto her back. Her head lolls to one side. He waves his arms. A baritone vomits into his helmet. Someone screams.

The curtain falls.

The Elector is furious, it’s said. He has so many mistresses—what harm can there be in another? The singer recovers enough for them to have another blazing row, so violent you can hear them in the guards’ hall. In the chapel. The Chancellor, the kitchen boys, the sentries on the gate overhear.

‘How could you do such a thing? And in public?’

The Elector glares at his attendants and they scamper for the door.

Julie waits until they leave, but knows they’re listening just outside. ‘Don’t pretend that you care.’

‘I see. So it was a test of my regard?’

‘At least you noticed.’

‘Everyone did, you idiotic woman.’

Julie is propped up in bed on a dozen silk cushions, her throat and shoulder tightly strapped. The pain is visible on her face, but it doesn’t stop her shouting. ‘Your mistress—the other one—was she there with you?’

‘Even worse.’ The Elector paces the room like a captive lion. ‘Some paltry attempt at revenge.’

‘Did she see?’

‘Why do I bother with you? I, who can have any woman he wants?’

‘So can I.’

Julie manages to struggle out of bed and throws a set of dinner plates, brought all the way from China, at the Elector’s head. He shouts gutter words, filth, soldier’s curses.

The reconciliation is almost as violent. She cries out, he cries out, their voices rise and fall in duet. The doctors fear for the singer’s wounds. For the Elector’s soul. She heals fast. Is back on stage within two weeks, lamenting Dido’s tragic fate as if nothing happened. He meets his other mistresses with more discretion.

The Comtesse d’Arcos, for example. Perhaps a little less interesting but a great deal less trouble than the singer. She plays cards in the evening, waits in her boudoir for his visits—her body, her mouth, her smile available to him at any time. She lets him do whatever he wants, doesn’t fight him, straddle him, insist on her own pleasure. Like some. At least, those are the cards she has laid out for him, for now. The stakes are high and she understands, better than the singer, how to play.

Her husband knows not to visit his own house at certain moments. His drivers, his footmen, alert him to the presence of the regal carriage in his own courtyard and he drives on, to an apartment in town, to his own mistress. All so civilised. Circumspect.

So the Comte d’Arcos is not surprised by the summons to the palace, nor by the private interview with the Elector’s personal secretary, and although he is a little nervous about the task he is given, the request so politely made can’t be refused. But he understands. These are delicate matters. Need to be handled with care, with diplomacy, at a distance. There need be no plate-throwing, no stabbing. No dramatics. He hopes. Still, it must be done. One does not decline the honour of a commission from the palace, even if it may seem, to outside eyes, perhaps a little perverse, perhaps a little insulting.

So d’Arcos finds himself backstage at l’Opéra du Quai au Foin late one night after a performance.
Amadis
. He imagined it would be the perfect setting—a private dressing-room, a rowdy atmosphere beyond so they can’t be overheard. Instead he finds the singer surrounded by women in various stages of undress, some still in face paint, some slightly drunk, all laughing and singing, and two in the corner who look as if they might be fondling each other’s breasts.

She is laughing with the others, a grubby towel around her neck, her beautiful face wiped clean of paint—though there’s a smudge of it on her throat—her hair hanging in ringlets down her back. Here, she is the
prima donna
, as the Italians say, the one who chooses her roles, who receives the most flowers, who kisses the dressers and consoles the chorus girls and teases the dancers. It is she the crowds come to see, to hear. She will not give it up easily.

She sees d’Arcos waiting—knows all too well who he is, what it means. Ignores him. Nothing less than a regal decree will rip her out of this place.

It is nothing less that he carries.

‘Madame, if I may …’ he begins, with a bow.

‘Have we met?’

‘No. Sadly, no.’

‘Do I wish to meet you?’ She faces the mirror, watching his reflection.

‘Probably not,’ he admits. ‘And yet here I am. Comte d’Arcos, at your service.’

‘Are you really?’

‘Forgive me. No.’

‘In whose service are you, then?’

‘I cannot say.’

‘I understand.’

D’Arcos glances around him. ‘Is there somewhere more private we might speak?’

‘Forgive me. No.’

‘It might be more pleasant.’

‘I doubt it.’ The damned woman still won’t look at him.

‘More discreet.’

‘These are my friends, my sisters,’ Julie says. ‘I have no secrets from them. Well, not many. If you have something to say, out with it or be off.’

D’Arcos swallows. ‘As you wish.’ But then the words won’t come.

‘You were saying, sieur?’

‘I have …’

‘A message?’ She smooths oil into her forehead, her fingertips circling, massaging, entrancing.

‘Yes. That’s right.’

‘I don’t wish to hear it.’ She stands and turns to face him at last. She really is very tall.

‘I’m afraid I must insist.’

‘I see.’

She doesn’t appear to have a sword to hand, but looks as if she could snap his neck in an instant. Her robe falls open. He sees Dido’s scars, only just healed, near her heart, her breast.

He has never wanted any woman as much as he wants her at this moment. He struggles for breath, for words.

Gives up. Holds out the purse.

‘What’s this?’ She stares at his outstretched hand as if it held a viper.

‘Two thousand
livres
.’

‘That’s my price, is it? It’s not much.’

‘Two thousand every year.’

‘Ah! My pension?’ She lets go a laugh.

‘Your recompense, madame.’

‘For what?’

‘Travelling expenses.’

‘Really?’ She moves closer. ‘Where am I going?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t care. Nor does the Elector.’

He realises too late that he’s lost, he’s failed, he’s in mortal danger. She snatches the purse from his hand and flings it at his face. He feels his nose smash into fragments, a spurt of blood, cries out. But she’s shouting at him now.

‘Pay me off? Is that the plan? Pathetic. How dare he send you to deal with me?’

‘I was ordered.’

‘A man like you, a weakling like you.’

‘I’m bleeding.’ Is he weeping? Is it possible?

‘D’you think I care?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Now begging. In a moment he will bow at her feet, he knows it. She knows it.

‘I cannot be bought.’

‘It’s a gift, that’s all. I swear.’

‘You have it then,’ Julie says, almost snarling. ‘It’s your reward for being an arse-sucker. If you were even half a man you’d take it back and throw it in his face.’

‘I can’t. My wife—’

‘As if I would stay here, in this cesspit of a city, after this insult.’ She throws her robe wide open and he shouldn’t look at her, but he can’t help himself. ‘Let’s see how your precious Opéra gets on without me. You’ll be sorry. He’ll be sorry. Imagine how dull your lives will be now. Without me. Without La Maupin.’

‘It’s true.’ D’Arcos hears his voice as if it’s someone else’s. ‘You must stay. I’ll talk to him. Beg him.’

‘You tapeworm. You flea. You cuckold. Get out before I kill you.’

He stumbles from the dressing-room, his sleeve across his face, blood everywhere, tears. Behind him, she stands at the top of the stairs, naked now and still shouting, and he can hear the uproar—fifteen women on their knees scrabbling for gold coins.