Goddess (26 page)

T
HE SUN IS LOW IN THE SKY
, slanting in through the window at an inconvenient angle for the ladies near the backgammon table. The footmen bring an embroidered silk screen but it’s too late. The entire afternoon is a disaster. The Comtesse won’t hear the end of it for weeks.

She couldn’t care less. She is waiting. Some people may accuse her of interfering, but really, who could resist? It’s almost ridiculously simple, and such a perfect solution—salvation—for her darling La Maupin, her blade. How did it not occur to her before? So now the most beautiful woman in France sits at a card table in the Comtesse’s salon, unaware—although perhaps she has some inkling—that her destiny will arrive—surely—any moment.

The Comtesse catches herself—more than once—holding her breath, like a girl before her first court ball. Isn’t paying attention to the chatter or the sun melting the Duchesse de Saint-Simon’s complexion or even supper being served. Her eyes are on the door—on the woman in the next room—on the door—and then—at last.

La Maupin saunters—really, there’s no other word for it—into the salon, just as she always does, bows low to her very own Comtesse and smiles. ‘My lady.’

‘I’m so glad you could come.’

‘I always do. You know that. If you ask politely.’ Julie is safe here, she knows that, after all these years. This room, these windows, the Comtesse’s intelligence and peerless wine. One day, perhaps, she will have such a home. A haven.

‘You were magnificent last night, my dear,’ says the Comtesse. ‘I’m not fond of Rebel’s work, but you made a splendid Penelope. Ulysses would have to be a fool to leave such a woman.’

‘If I were really Penelope, Comtesse, it would be she who sails off, leaving Ulysses to pine away at home.’

‘No doubt.’

The Comtesse lets her eyes do all the work—her gaze strays across towards the windows, and Julie glances that way—the Comtesse hears the gentle gasp, can feel the sudden shock as if of lightning, even from a distance, and watches—smiles—nearly weeps—as her darling walks away from her across the room, to the young woman with green eyes who moves to meet her, who is waiting for her—has been waiting for her for years.

‘La Maupin.’

‘Madame la Marquise de Florensac.’ Julie bows deeply, theatrically, one hand on her sword. Tries to smile although she can barely breathe. ‘Of course.’

‘I knew you would be here.’

‘The Comtesse told you?’

‘Nobody told me. I knew. I felt it.’

‘That’s odd. Just a moment ago, I, too, felt—well, never mind.’

It’s exactly the same as it was in the middle of that ballroom all those years ago, as it will always be. They don’t, can’t, do anything but stare at one another.

‘Everyone is watching us,’ says the Marquise. ‘They fear for me.’

‘With reason. They haven’t forgotten the last time we met.’

‘Nor have I.’

‘No.’

They are older, it’s true. But both still perfect. Still connected—Julie feels the exquisite barbs deep in her skin, her chest—as if only a few moments have passed since that kiss. That first kiss. Their voices, her face, her breath, her hair, her throat—Marie-Thérèse—all that matters—that exists—in the world.

‘You need not fight any duels on my account tonight.’

‘I will behave myself this time, I promise.’

‘What a pity.’

Julie feels as if there are seabirds in her belly, plummeting and pitching, circling, crying out.

‘You would prefer I fought a few men for you?’ she says. ‘I’m sure it can be arranged. Your young cousin, perhaps, could be persuaded to challenge me again in defence of your honour.’

‘Poor Marcel. He was killed, you know. In the siege of Namur.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Damn. ‘I didn’t know. He was brave. That night.’

‘And you?’

‘I was angry. And—’

The Marquise reaches out a hand but then lets it drop. She can’t touch her—not yet. ‘Forgive me. My husband is beckoning me. I must go. I will see you tomorrow morning, at Monsieur le Perche’s
salle
. I will be there at eight.’

‘You want to watch me fence?’

‘No. I want to challenge you.’

Julie’s smile is a wonder, a dizzying shaft of light. ‘A duel?’

‘A bout. That’s all.’

‘You fight your own battles these days?’

‘I learned fencing from a young age. It is, we were told, very good for the female posture. Did you think you were the only one?’

‘Not at all. But my training was tougher, a little …’ ‘Less ladylike?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I’m not afraid of you.’

Julie tips her head to one side. It’s bewildering, this feeling—unsettling—inevitable. Queer. ‘Perhaps you should be, Marquise. Surely you’ve heard the stories.’

‘Of course. Everyone has. And yet …’

‘You will risk it.’

‘What am I risking, really, that I could not bear to lose?’ The Marquise whispers it so that only Julie can hear.

Julie steps back. It’s too much. Offers a more circumspect bow. ‘Very well.’

‘Tomorrow, then?’

‘As you wish, Madame la Marquise.’

‘This is no jest.’

‘I’m not laughing.’

‘Bring your sword.’

‘Always.’

The next day. The
salle
is deserted, the early-morning light just touching the weapons racks. La Maupin strides to the middle of the room. Turns around.

She laughs out loud. ‘No jest, indeed.’

Awake all night for nothing. Dying a thousand deaths. Talking to herself in the dark.

She puts her hands on her hips. Turns around again. Shouts. ‘Le Perche? Hell’s teeth. Where is everyone?’

Nobody answers. Except.

There’s a movement in one dark corner. A swirl of dust. Of silk.

‘Here.’

La Maupin bows low to conceal her face—her fear. ‘Madame la Marquise. I thought you had forgotten.’

‘Far from it. I’ve been looking forward to this since we first met.’

Madame la Marquise de Florensac walks slowly into the light. She wears her golden hair high, so that the singer can admire the soft skin on her throat, the perfect ears. She is all in black—a thick padded fencing jacket and long skirt, one red glove on her sword hand and a flush in her cheeks.

‘Now you’re scaring me,’ Julie says.

‘Don’t be absurd.
En garde.
’

Two women meet in the centre of the room. Swords raised, nearly engaged, nearly close, but not quite. They circle each other.

Julie almost smiles. ‘We’re lucky nobody’s here. It’s usually busy at this hour.’

‘It’s not luck. I paid them to go away.’

‘You don’t want anyone to see you lose?’

‘I don’t want anyone else’s eyes on you. On us.’

The silver blades clash. Tangle. The Marquise’s lunge brings them closer, but only for an instant. The sunlight catches in her hair. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t pause—attacks again. Close.

‘Are you letting me win, La Maupin?’

‘No,’ Julie says, then grins. ‘Yes. But you fence well.’

‘As well as a man?’

‘Better than many I’ve fought.’ She circles around to her left, sword raised, her back to the light.

‘Are you surprised?’

‘A little.’

‘Impressed?’

‘Very.’

La Maupin slithers their blades together, taps one foot on the floor as if about to leap forward—then stops.

The Marquise retreats, smiles. Can’t decide whether to focus on the blades or the body or the eyes—the face; whether to attack or retreat or surrender.

‘Many ladies of the court fence, you know,’ she says instead.

‘So I understand. But none of them have ever—I’ve never been asked before …’

‘More fool them,’ says the Marquise, but softly. ‘I’ve learned more of the art in these few minutes with you than in years of training with Monsieur le Perche.’

‘Really?’

‘I will never lie to you.’

The Marquise lunges again. La Maupin parries low to
seconde
, then up to
prime
as the Marquise thrusts again, high. Takes a step back. And another. Smiles.

‘So what have you learned, Marquise?’

‘There’s a rhythm. A pattern.’

‘Yes. There’s music in swordplay, if you have the mind to listen to it. Gorgeous, sacred music.’

‘I never knew that before.’

‘Even in the silences,’ says Julie. ‘In the breathing. The sound of one blade sliding along another—it’s like silk, to me, like a choir.’

‘And does everyone have their own song?’

‘Most.’ Julie disengages her blade, feints, forces the Marquise onto the back foot, into retreat, then slows, watching all the time—the green eyes, the pale throat. ‘Some are discordant messes. Once I understand a man’s rhythm, I know how to beat him.’

‘And a woman?’

‘It’s different.’

‘But you can still beat me?’

‘Of course.’

‘I don’t mind. I am watching what you do. You take my measure. You slide the blade and tap your foot, move your shoulder forward as if to feint, but don’t attack—not properly. Are you sensing my resistance?’

‘Your control. Your patience. Everything. I’m listening to you. Feeling you.’

‘And you allow me to come to you, to advance,’ says the Marquise. ‘But you aren’t really retreating, are you? At any moment you might pounce.’

She does. It seems too perfect—too poetic—an opportunity to let pass. A simple thrust but it’s fast. The blade grazes the Marquise’s shoulder—gently.

She laughs. ‘
Touché
. That was silly of me.’

‘Not at all.’

‘You will not trick me again.’

‘You know me too well,’ says Julie. ‘Already. I shall have to be more careful. I’ve fought dozens of men—hundreds—and they’ve never noticed that pattern.’

‘They are too busy trying to beat you.’

‘Perhaps.’ Julie shrugs. ‘They rarely pay any attention to me at all. They focus on the blade, as if it has a mind of its own.’

‘They are fools, then.’

‘Sometimes they’re just scared.’

‘Understandably. Your reputation is fearsome.’

‘They don’t look. You see through me. Into me.’

‘Not yet. But I will.’

Now the Marquise moves more slowly, gliding across the polished floor with a low attack, easily parried but very elegant. It’s dangerous, the Marquise knows that—she’s vulnerable here, now, but feels that if she died this instant, at these hands, at this blade, she wouldn’t mind so very much. Wonders, too, if any other moment in her life matters as much as the next few—if anyone anywhere in the world has felt like this—ever. Is she predator or prey? Or don’t those rules apply? She has no idea, doesn’t care.

She hopes only that her nerve won’t fail her, that her hands don’t tremble, that years of longing won’t burst from her chest and betray her.

She tears her gaze away from the blades and looks directly into Julie’s face. ‘Are you happy, Mademoiselle de Maupin?’

‘At this moment? Yes.’

‘Other moments?’

‘It depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On the moment.’

Julie glides her blade gently along her opponent’s, pauses, then breathes. Beats the Marquise’s blade sharply out of line and lunges. Stops short. Sword arm straight, her blade perfectly still, the point hovering before the Marquise’s chest. They hold each other’s gaze for a heartbeat. Julie stands, straightens, allows her sword tip to drop to the floor.

‘What of you, Marquise? You are married.’

‘I thought it would make me happy. I was misinformed.’

‘A pity. You’re wealthy. You could have chosen anyone.’

‘I have. It’s just taken me a while.’

‘And beautiful—even more beautiful than you were at sixteen.’

‘Don’t talk nonsense. Tell me something that nobody else has ever said.’

Julie sheathes her sword and holds out one hand. ‘Come home with me. I will devour you.’

‘I feared you’d never ask.’

S
HE SAID YES.

From that morning in the
salle
we were rarely apart. We slept, ate, laughed, walked, fenced, entertained, gambled, rode, dressed, bathed, even danced together. Every night. Every day. We woke up each morning entangled in each other’s arms, breath, hair, warmth. I went to sleep each night breathless at the thought that the next day I would love her all over again.

We lived like normal people—you know?

Or not quite. Like goddesses together, princesses, floating in clouds, as if two of my most memorable roles had escaped the stage and eloped together—Clorinde and Athéna, perhaps.

I wore her likeness on a ribbon at my throat, alongside my mother’s pendant. A miniature, by one of those fancy court painters. It didn’t do her justice, but that’s no surprise. There is some beauty, some wildness, which can never be captured by art. Her husband’s family took it from me. Even that. Why? It was my only consolation.

My only love.

Don’t get me wrong. The earthly delights were manifold. That’s right, Father, spare me your blushes. We sinned. Absolutely. A great deal and in every manner known to humanity. We may even have sinned in ways the serpent never imagined. In the mornings, just after dawn, or in those hot afternoons when your skin sticks together and you can barely move and yet you do—in her boudoir, the dining room, the
orangerie
, once or twice in a carriage riding through the park.

She was no angel. Far from it. She was all gold hair and wild laughter, the fragrance of gardenias and lavender, a woman such as appears once in a century, if at all. She has—had—a brilliant mind, so accomplished they still sing of her in Paris. A fine rider. No-one was a better dancer. Stubborn, yes. Too witty, sometimes, for her own good. It’s true she was ambitious, but not for wealth, not for fame—for me. That’s all.

We lived in one of the new mansions on Place Royale. So peaceful. I dream of it. Our music room with the yellow walls and windows onto the terrace. Early-morning rides in the park. Late nights by the fire. Just us, a bottle of wine. Her laughter. The skin on her throat flushing crimson, her head back. Her breath. The salons. The balls. The teasing.

Those were the years of my greatest stage triumphs—
Tancrède
, written especially for my voice—never to be forgotten, so they say. The ultimate glory for a singer, that is—to have an entire work created for you, around you, about you and your voice. My voice. Shattered now, but then … A thing of genius, of course. What else?

Then my Médée, in Bouvard’s
Médus
. Francine thought I couldn’t sing it, even Le Rochois said she’d have refused it—too hard, even for her, but not me. Oh, no. I was a triumph. Yet again.

People said I was the soul of France, the essence of Paris. A goddess. The sun. And so I was.

But I can barely remember any of that. I tell you these things, the markers of my life, so you can write them down. They mattered a great deal at the time, but now—if I think of those years, it’s not the applause I remember. I think first of Thérèse and the Comtesse whispering in a corner. Thérèse and d’Albert dancing together, my twin, entwined hearts. My friends telling stories, Thévenard singing stupid ditties, and all of us drinking around our supper table. The parties. The songs. The carpets. The curtains. The bed. Evenings at the Palais-Royal, and me in full voice, knowing that Thérèse is there, watching me—feeling me, knowing me—and me alone on stage but with her everywhere around me. Forever. Or so we imagined.

Forever.

Dear God, help me. She is gone.

Forever.

Yes, it was adultery. No doubt about it. Endless amounts of adultery. You want to hear about her husband? The poor benighted cuckold? So. There’s little to say. I barely knew him. He lived in the country, in his chateau over near d’Uzès, of course. He kept his mistresses there, and his hunting dogs, and was content enough, I suppose. A retired warhorse. A nobleman. She visited on holidays, his birthday. Easter. He came to Paris rarely—he went more often to Versailles, and sometimes she was summoned to appear there at his side, to dance and smile and flutter as if they were truly married.

I never went near the palace if I could help it.

Thérèse quite liked to visit, I think, to show off her new gowns and stare down the Dauphin. She liked the mirrors and the canals. She’d come home and tell me about the new murals in the salons or banquets in the park, about strolling through the gardens with some young rake just to annoy the Marquis, about him making a fuss over her slippers getting dusty, about dancing a gavotte with d’Albert and giggling behind her husband’s back. She liked the ice-cream and visits to the stables and carriage rides around the fountains.

I couldn’t think of it as grand when I’d run all over the place, half naked and sunburned, as a child. I remember instead the secret spaces, the haylofts and potting sheds, the orchards after dusk, the kitchens and the cool rooms. I remember the flagstones in winter, so cold underfoot it felt as if your toes would freeze. Stealing the first fruit of autumn. Dust. Fencing drills at dawn. Grapes in the sunshine, and flowers, and mown grass. My father’s shirts drying in the afternoons. His cane smacking that soft spot behind my knees. A stableboy crying in his sleep. The spit roasts, and bread hot from the ovens with honey from the King’s beehives.

I did wish I could show those things to Thérèse—wished I could walk with her, arm in arm, across the forecourt, pointing, reminiscing.

That’s where I stood when d’Armagnac decided to take me as his mistress. Over there, in the shade of that tree, I sat humming to myself and played in the mud like an oystercatcher. This is where I saw my first
tragédie
, first heard Le Rochois, first saw that louse Duménil. Here, the King laughed at me one day when I fell into the fountain just as his carriage passed. I jumped my horse over the highest fence. I raced the pages clear across town to the potager. I trained with Master de Liancourt. I ate a caterpillar for a dare.

But I never did tell her. We couldn’t visit Versailles together. Not if her husband was at court. Not ever.

I sang there again once or twice—at the Trianon, and once, just a few of us and the violins, after a wolf hunt in the forest. But the King’s spirit had flown by then and he kept to himself, so the grand concerts belonged to the past. His Majesty spent his evenings with Madame de Maintenon, and who can blame him? Being fabulous is very tiring.

The Marquis de Florensac was no different. Just like his King, weary of wars and wives, he retired into a life of mistresses and hunting and wine and forgetting. He kept their son with him, in the country, out of harm’s way. He knew about me—of course he did. Everyone in Paris knew. But what could he do about it? Challenge me? Not him. He simply chose to ignore my existence, so long as Thérèse played the Marquise when occasion demanded it. At court. At Mass. And every so often in his bed.

If that was the price she—we—owed to be left in peace, so be it. It seemed little enough at the time. It seemed, in fact, like luxury.

Ah. We sinned. Yes. Over and over and so deliciously, and I would do it all again—I would still be doing it now, if only—and you wanted me to unburden myself, so here it is, the impossible burden, the great grief.

This is what you want to hear. Me. Remembering how it was, every night, every day—remembering her mouth on mine, her—crying out in the darkness—it tears at me, like demons, like claws, like boiling pitch, every waking moment and there can be no greater Hell than this. Surely.

That Hell is eternal for me now, whether I live or die, on this earth or in any other place. You understand? There is no relief, no salvation. Only torment. Daily, infernal torment. My mind and my heart fill with the longing, the memories—her hair damp against her forehead, her skin always astonished at my touch, the force of desire, the overwhelming tide of it, the sleepless wonder of it, the desperate, sweaty clinging, the long hours of oblivious floating, a smile, a shudder, a pain in my chest so acute, so crushing, so delicious that nothing else—nothing—matters. Now or then.

These things I tell you, these other tales, exploits, sorrows—they make up my story, my life, it’s true. But all they really do is fill in the years before Thérèse. Yes, there was a life before. It was interesting enough. People seem to find it so. Even you. But I am not entirely sure there can be a life after. After her.

After that. How can it be possible? How can it be true? I wake and endure every day now in this state of wondering. First, the desire, the fleeting, floating memories—then—then—the truth. Her breasts, those fingers, the fine hair, her silken skin, all gone. Rotting. Perhaps by now little more than dust. In a family sepulchre somewhere.

Not my family, no. Not hers. His—her husband’s family crypt, of course, with the d’Uzès arms above the door and a dutiful epitaph in stone.

She fell pregnant after one of their visits to Versailles, and he never came near her after that. It was me who nursed her through the morning sickness, my hands on her belly ever so softly when the child stirred within her.

It was me who listened, ill with fear, to her birthing-bed screams, who sat with her every moment once the fever took hold.

It was me—me, who—dear God, have pity—I cannot speak the words. Cannot go on much longer.

It was me who … who cradled her in my arms as the breath left her, held her close until the rigor set in and her skin was ice. I would have kept holding her, died holding her, right there. But they took her away.

Thérèse was my wife in everything but law. My love. My heart.

But it was him who gave her over to the Carmelites for burial, who ordered that poor weak child taken away, who accepted the comfort of the world for his loss.

It was me who was lost. Utterly. In a wilderness. In a desert. I know not where. In a city that no longer even noticed me.

So I came here.