Louisa Rawlings (8 page)

By the time Thursday came, and she was dressing for the king’s
appartement
, she was resolved to ask Arsène to wait a little longer for her answer. The moment he returned she would tell him. She wasn’t ready to marry him. Nor to surrender her virtue to him.
 

Not that she was so saintly as to set a great store on her virtue. Long ago she’d decided that she’d give herself in love someday, married or not. It was only that she’d never met the man worthy of such a gift. And her instinct told her that to surrender to Arsène before marriage—even if she loved him—would put that marriage out of her reach.
 

Her decision made, she determined to enjoy herself this evening. She was delighted when one of the courtiers—a young vicomte in blue velvet—insisted on monopolizing her time. He was a jolly fellow whose father held a high position in the court, and he made a delightful companion for the evening, keeping her laughing with rollicking jokes and stories. And there was a bonus: he didn’t seem romantically inclined, but merely enjoying the pleasure of her company. After Arsène’s passionate intensity, it was a relief.
 

They had danced a particularly lively galliard. Laughing, Rouge leaned up against the wall of the king’s drawing room and dabbed at her face with a handkerchief. “By my faith, I have the appetite of a peasant tonight! Will the
maître d’hôtel
never announce supper?”
 

The vicomte smiled. “Sup with me alone, then. I have a most comfortable antechamber, where we can enjoy a pleasant meal.”
 

She hesitated. Perhaps she’d been mistaken in her assessment of him. “Only the two of us?”
 

“Come. Will it not be more agreeable than dining with the court? Only think of it. The silence, because no one wishes to disturb the king at his food. The hurt looks and angry frowns because some fat duchesse has been seated below a
maréchal
’s
wife. The boredom of waiting for each course to be served. Can you truly prefer that to a pleasant supper in private?”
 

“Well…” He certainly didn’t seem to be suggesting more than supper. His smile was bland and open, his eyes unclouded by darker desires. It might be to her advantage at that. If Arsène were to discover, upon his return, that she had supped tête-à-tête, it would make it clear to him that she wasn’t quite ready to talk of marriage. She nodded her head in agreement and allowed the vicomte to lead her down the corridor to his rooms. They were exceedingly fine: the small antechamber was well-furnished though sparsely lit, its several candles casting a burnished glow on a little table set for supper. Rouge frowned as the vicomte closed the door. “The table is set and waiting. What if I had refused?”
 

“I had many persuasive arguments.” The smile had left his face.
 

“And I had more.” A soft voice from a dim corner of the room. Rouge whirled about to face the speaker. She recognized him at once. The Marquis de Torcy, the king’s foreign minister. He had come to his post honorably: his grandfather had been the great Colbert, who had helped Louis reshape France thirty years before. A man of about thirty-five, with a calm, implacable manner, Torcy sat at a small writing desk. He put down the pen with which he had been addressing a sealed packet, sprinkled sand on the wet ink, shook it off, and rose to his feet. “Thank you, Albret,” he said, handing the vicomte the letter. They bowed to one another, and Albret left the room, going out by a small door carved into the paneling. “Forgive my subterfuge,” said Torcy. “I do not wish the court to know we’re together.” He smiled and drew out a chair for her. “Mademoiselle? You
were
promised supper, I think.”
 

“You and I?” she asked coldly. “And what of Madame de Torcy, your wife?” She hadn’t thought the marquis was given to casual liaisons.
 

“Don’t be a fool, Mademoiselle de Tournières,” he snapped. “Sit down. I’ve invited you for supper and a little chat. Nothing more.”
 

She glanced down at the table. The food looked and smelled delectable. And she was famished. She nodded and took the chair he proffered, noticing with curiosity that the table had been fully set, so there was no need for servants. And indeed, no servants were in sight. “And Albret,” she said. “His attentions this evening. Was that also arranged by you?”
 

He poured her some wine. “I wished to see you alone. But I didn’t want you to be seen coming to my chamber. Albret makes an excellent stalking-horse. What is more natural than that the court should think a charming coquette like you has made a new conquest? Of course, Albret has…far more interest in his own sex than in yours—a not uncommon vice in this court, alas! But he’s delighted to play the part of a devoted lover. He doesn’t risk forming an attachment to you, and madame his mother will think her son has regretted the error of his past ways. You and I can thus meet here whenever it’s necessary.” He gestured toward a platter of spiced beef. “Please.”
 

Rouge filled her plate. Her curiosity was piqued, but nothing could dull her hunger pangs. She ate in silent contentment for a few minutes, then looked across the table at him. “Why should we meet?” she asked, stopping to take a drink of wine.
 

“What do you know about the politics of France? In particular, her traffic with Spain?”
 

“Not a great deal. I know that the two royal houses are connected by blood and marriage several times over. Both the king’s mother and his wife were Spanish.” She frowned, thinking. “And King Charles of Spain married our beloved king’s niece,
n’est-ce pas
? But still we go to war with Spain and her allies. In the Low Countries, in Franche-Comté, in Steinkirk…” Tintin had fought his last battle at Steinkirk.
 

He nodded. “Yes.
Still we go to war. And might again, God forfend. Spain has been a thorn in our side for a hundred years. She surrounds us with her holdings in the Netherlands, Italy, Savoy. She makes treaties with Austria and the Empire, alliances with the German princes. We have fought her,” he laughed softly, “and intermarried with her, in hopes of keeping the peace.” He stared thoughtfully at his wine cup.
 

Rouge wondered what this history lesson had to do with her. Louis didn’t encourage the
men
of his court to bother themselves with the business of government; to invite a woman’s interest in such matters was almost unheard of. “We all welcome peace,” she murmured.
 

“Charles of Spain is dying,” he said. “Without an heir. The Spanish Hapsburg line, it would seem, will be extinct.”
 

“Then who will rule Spain and her territories?”
 

“France, of course, has a claim. But so does Austria, related by birth and marriage to the Spanish throne. Naturally, we think our claim is the stronger, but…”

Rouge helped herself to more food.
Le bon Dieu
knew where she would be supping tomorrow! “Could that mean war?”
 

“Yes, if Austria’s claim is honored. For we would be surrounded by the strongest power in all of Europe. The Dutch and the English, for their own safety, would like to see Spain partitioned, with all claimants taking a share. But Charles of Spain resists the notion of cutting up his holdings into little pieces. Our spies have just informed us that he means to make a new will. If that is so, it’s imperative that he name a French Bourbon prince as his heir. Not—God preserve us—an Austrian Hapsburg!”
 

Rouge frowned, thinking. The problem appealed to her orderly mind. “A Bourbon prince. Not Monseigneur the dauphin, surely. Not the heir to the throne of France.”
 

“Indeed, no. That would terrify all of Europe! And for the same reason, the dauphin’s first son, the Duc de Bourgogne, also would be unacceptable, since he’s in direct line to the throne.”
 

“The king’s brother, perhaps. Or his brother’s son, the Duc de Chartres?”
 

“The king’s brother has given himself over to corruption and debauchery. And Chartres is perverse and moody.” Torcy laughed shortly. “It is hard to decide whether he has too little ambition, or too much. No. The king hopes to propose Philippe, Duc d’Anjou, his second grandson, as heir to the throne of Spain. He’s a reserved and virtuous young man, not at all like his high-spirited brothers. He would, of course, renounce any claims to the French throne.”
 

Rouge was finding it more and more fascinating. “Will Charles agree to it, do you think?”
 

“Our ambassador to Spain is doing his best to persuade King Charles of the wisdom of that course. And we have heard that Charles has asked the Pope in Rome for his advice on the matter. It is, of course, vital to the Holy Father to keep Spain Catholic.”
 

Rouge nodded. “Rather than see the Protestant Hapsburgs on the throne.”
 

“Yes. But a little insurance does no harm. France also has friends in Rome who can plead her cause with the Pope. We wish to be certain that his advice to Charles benefits our own country.”
 

Rouge stared at Torcy. Surely it was very indiscreet for him to be telling all of this to her. She was loyal to France, of course. But what if she had been a friend to Austria? “Why do you tell me this?” she asked.
 

“I’ll get right to the point. There are always those, even among the king’s intimates, who have their own desires and causes. It’s important for me to know what goes on in the antechambers and
cabinets
of Versailles. I’ve watched you, Mademoiselle de Tournières. You’ve not been here at court for any length of time, yet you manage to have courtiers at your feet. You’re very beautiful, and very skilled at playing the coquette.”
 

Rouge pursed her lips in annoyance. “That scarcely sounds like a compliment, the way you put it.”
 

His eyes were cold. “I have no time for compliments. My concerns are with France. That can be a handicap, however. All the court knows who I am. Whereas you, mademoiselle—a charming creature, a creature of frivolity—can learn things, do things, that might be difficult for others.”
 

Rouge felt her blood run cold. “What are you asking me?”
 

“I think you know. I want you to be an…agent, if you will. A courier.”
 

“A
spy
, you mean!”
 

“Just so.”
 

She stood up, trembling. “Monsieur de Torcy. You have brought me here to ask such a thing of me? It shames me to think I’ve eaten your food, enjoyed your hospitality for even a single moment… By heaven, you purchase your spies cheaply! I’m as loyal as any other Frenchwoman. But to be a spy?
Mon Dieu!
What do you think I am?”
 

“Mademoiselle,” he said tiredly, “I’m not a villain. I do what I must for France. But I have no time for your indignation. I think you’re no better, and no worse, than most of the women at this dissolute court, who waste their days and nights in foolish games of love. If not, you’d be far from here, with a husband and children to keep you from mischief.”
 

“Now may you be damned,” she whispered, and stormed to the door.
 

“Come back and sit down!”
 

The authority in his voice stopped her in her tracks. Reluctantly she turned, her gray eyes shooting angry sparks.
 

“You have a father who gambles heavily, I believe.” She took a deep breath, her hand going to her mouth. “There’s a moneylender in Paris who holds his note, mademoiselle. Do you know the amount?” She shook her head. “One hundred and twenty-five thousand livres.”
 

“Dieu!”
she breathed. Suddenly her knees could no longer support her. She sank back into her chair. If they sold half the land of Sans-Souci, they couldn’t repay the debt. But how dare Torcy use it against her! She felt the color returning to her cheeks, her strong will reasserting itself. “The debt will be repaid in time, Monsieur de Torcy! I give you my word.”
 

“I admire your spirit, mademoiselle. You surprise me. But the moneylender will obey my orders. If I ask him to call in his note
tomorrow
, it will mean prison for your father, and disgrace and ruin for your house and name. There’s one more thing,” he added, as she hesitated. “I have heard from certain quarters that your father’s fortunes at the card table seem to rise dramatically when you’re in the room. Perhaps you’re merely his good-luck amulet, but I suspect a case could be made on circumstantial evidence. We brand thieves and cheats in France, mademoiselle. Even one as lovely as you.”
 

She made a brazen attempt at a defense. “You have no proof.”
 

He poured himself another glass of wine. His eyes were unreadable. “Perhaps I do. Can you be sure?” The voice was like ice. “Have you seen the prison of the
Filles Repenties
in Paris, mademoiselle? The whores and cheats there sell themselves to their jailers for an extra crust of bread. Not quite as dainty as insinuating yourself into a courtier’s bed for a jewel,
n’est-ce pas
? Can you risk such a fate on the proofs that I may hold?”
 

She stared down at her clasped hands. More than once she had hidden a card in her sleeve or her fan, to slip to Tintin when he needed it. Could Torcy hold one of those cards? “You have me at a disadvantage, Monsieur de Torcy. What do you want of me?”