Lili’s temples were throbbing. “Oui, Baronne Lomont.”
“I paid a short visit once to the marquis at his ancestral home at Cirey,” the baroness went on. “All day he and his guests waited for
your mother and Monsieur Voltaire to leave off from their experiments and their papers, and even at dinner they would talk about nothing of interest to anyone but themselves. I recall one singularly unedifying discussion about fire, and another where both of them stormed from the table over a disagreement as to whether some hidden force was at work in rocks they had been dropping all day in their lab—”
“Monsieur Voltaire lived with my parents at Cirey?”
“Monsieur Voltaire lived with your mother at Cirey.” Baronne Lomont paused to let her meaning register. “The marquis was rarely there, since we are almost always at war now, and he spent months on end with his regiment at the front. I imagine your mother impressed upon him how prestigious it was to have the most famous writer in France living on his property, even if there were the occasional problems with the police.”
“Police?” The story was spiraling beyond imagination.
“Monsieur Voltaire is in trouble with the censors all the time. Many feel his quite public problems are a stronger reason for his fame than the quality of his work. I wouldn’t know since I think it is best not to waste time on authors the church has banned.” The baroness looked at a small clock on her desk. “We must get ready to leave for mass. I think I’ve said all you need to know.”
“Baronne Lomont,” Lili said, swallowing hard. “Why doesn’t my father care about me?” There. I’ve said it.
“What on earth do you mean? He turns over all the receipts from one of his properties to pay Madame de Bercy for your expenses. How can you fail to appreciate that?”
“Yes, but—”
“And he replies promptly when there are issues regarding your upbringing.” Her expression made it clear what she thought of Lili’s ingratitude.
“But he doesn’t reply to me—at least I imagine he would not if I were permitted to write. He has never asked to see me, and I’ve never been invited to visit him at Lunéville or Cirey. He must come to Paris
from time to time, doesn’t he? Why have I never met him?” Lili put her hands to her face, trying to mask what she could feel was the growing scarlet of her cheeks. “I’m sorry, madame. I should be more discreet, but—”
Baronne Lomont cleared her throat and began speaking in a voice that could barely contain her disgust. “Because of his obligations to his regiment and to the Duc de Lorraine, the marquis had few opportunities to live as husband and wife with your mother. Instead, she lived in a mockery of that state with Voltaire for more than a decade.”
She paused to enforce her point. “A decade, Stanislas-Adélaïde. Your mother and Voltaire took no pains to hide that they were lovers, and that led, quite naturally, to the most vicious rumors about her, even when it became clear the passion between them—if that’s what you call it—was gone, and they were no more than friends.”
Lili had never seen Baronne Lomont reveal anything beyond slight irritation, but now her eyes flashed and her lip was curled.
“To hear some people tell it, your mother at one point or another bedded every scientist or man of letters in France, and though nothing like that is the case, rumors themselves serve to magnify disrepute,” the baroness said. “When she conceived you, there were a few who amused themselves by spreading doubt that the marquis had been at Cirey at the appropriate time. You may hear the most unseemly whispering, but your father insists on his paternity, and anyone of quality should accept his word.”
What is she talking about? My mother had lovers? Whispers about paternity? Lili’s mind whirled in confusion.
Baronne Lomont stood up. “Do not listen to gossipmongers,” she said with a stern face. “And now we really must go.” She swept toward the door, leaving an astonished Lili to follow.
ALL THE WAY
to the Cathedral of Notre-Dame Lili and Baronne Lomont sat in silence while gusts of rain from an unexpected thunderstorm
battered their sedan chair. Lili shivered under a lap robe in the damp air, going over everything the baroness had said, and the one thing she had not. Why should my father be upset with me over something that happened long before I was born, something that wasn’t my fault at all?
“Baronne Lomont?” Lili inquired into the gloomy air of the coach. “How old is my father now?”
“He is nearing seventy. Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered. Did he ever marry again?”
“No. He loved your mother very much. Sometimes I think he stayed away from you because he didn’t want to be reminded of her.”
Maybe I wouldn’t either, if I’d lost someone I loved, Lili thought, unable to take the thought further because the only death she had ever mourned was poor little Tintin, who had died the year before.
The sedan chair slowed to a stop and she felt herself being lowered to the ground. She folded the lap robe and placed it on the velvet upholstery of her seat and waited for one of the carriers to open the door. Clouds veiled the twin towers of the west portal of Notre-Dame in wisps of gray as Lili and Baronne Lomont stepped out of the chair and entered the cathedral. Night was falling, and around them the church was dark except for hundreds of candles in the chapels lining the side aisles, and flickering light from oil lamps in the nave.
“Mademoiselle du Châtelet!”
Lili turned in the direction of a familiar voice.
“I thought that was you!” Joséphine de Maurepas said, coming out of the gloom toward her. “Didn’t I tell you so?” she asked the young man walking next to her.
Lili’s stomach fell. Jacques-Mars. “What are you doing here?”
Casting a stern look at Lili for her failure in etiquette, Baronne Lomont turned to Joséphine. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” she said in an uncharacteristically pleasant tone.
“Forgive me, Baronne,” Lili said. “I was taken by surprise to see someone I knew. Baronne Lomont, may I present Joséphine de Maurepas, a friend of mine from the abbey. And Jacques-Mars Courville,
whom I met at Vaux-le-Vicomte this summer.” The baroness nodded stiffly, and Lili turned back to Joséphine.
“Where is Anne-Mathilde?” she asked. And why are you here alone with Jacques-Mars?
Joséphine tittered, in a manner far more lively and confident than Lili remembered. “Anne-Mathilde is at Versailles with her mother, visiting the queen.”
“At Versailles?” Now? Lili’s heart sank.
“Yes, and when she heard you would be coming with Delphine, she was so pleased. She said it would be so much fun to have some friends there, since I am required to be in Paris now.” She turned to Baronne Lomont. “My mother is not well. Normally she comes to Notre-Dame to light candles in our chapel on the Friday nearest the feast day for St. Martin of Tours, since he is the patron saint of her family.” She took Jacques-Mars’s arm. “But I am doing it in her place this year, and Monsieur Courville was so kind as to bring me. We’re just waiting now for the carriage to take us home.”
She looked up at Jacques-Mars with a coquettish smile. “And just think, you foolish man, if there hadn’t been this beastly rain we might not have seen Lili. Or met Baronne Lomont.” She reached up and gave Jacques-Mars’s ear a friendly tug. “You should listen to me. I think that’s settled once and for all, isn’t it?”
“Decidedly,” Jacques-Mars replied, looking at Lili with the same hooded eyes that had so unnerved her the previous summer. “And now that I’ve heard you will be at Versailles, I will have to pay a visit myself. I believe I am still in your debt for a game of trictrac I lost? I’m afraid I can no longer honor your request to remove my bandage, since I’m quite healed, but”—he brandished his finger—“I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know such a pitiful wound left no scar.”
“Scar?” Josephine’s eyebrows rose as she turned toward Jacques-Mars with a nervous laugh. She wasn’t part of it, Lili realized. She was just in tow. She’s always been just in tow.
“It’s just a little joke between us,” Jacques-Mars said. “Isn’t it, Mademoiselle du Châtelet?”
Taken aback by his ability to be sinister and jovial at the same time, Lili was too dumbfounded to reply.
“Well then!” Joséphine had grown edgy. “If we aren’t all going to be in on the story, perhaps it’s time to leave.” She turned to Jacques-Mars. “Shall we see if our carriage is waiting?”
“Certainly,” he said, bowing to Baronne Lomont. “I hope I shall have the honor of seeing you again. And Mademoiselle du Châtelet, I am so pleased to know such an opportunity is imminent. Until Versailles, then.”
The baroness’ eyes pierced the gray air as she watched Jacques-Mars usher Joséphine through the door of the cathedral. “I don’t like that young man,” she said. “He has a way about him that is not to be trusted. And I’m not sure I like the tone of his reference to his bandage. Would you care to tell me about that?”
“Jacques-Mars was bitten on the finger by some prey he had snared,” Lili said, surprised by the facility with which she reshaped the truth. “He was rather embarrassed to have been so careless, that’s all.” Lili shrugged. “I’m surprised he remembers. And it had nothing to do with me.”
Baronne Lomont searched Lili’s face. “A shrug of the shoulder usually means there is more to something, not less, but I shall take you at your word.” She paused. “Nothing good will come of his attention to that young woman. Mark my words. And please reassure me you will stay away from him at Versailles.”
“You need not worry on that score, Baronne,” Lili said. “Neither Delphine nor I want anything to do with him. He is really quite a cad.”
The baroness nodded approval. “And I should make clear to you that the only time you need not defer to a social superior is when your honor is threatened. Remaining virtuous is your right, and you should keep that in mind around men like that one.”
The baroness glanced toward the crossing at the end of the nave. “They’re lighting the candles on the altar,” she said, taking Lili’s arm but not yet moving down the aisle. “I hope you understand how important it is to have a trustworthy man who can protect
you. There are many who will not, and the young are so inclined to misjudge.”
“Oui, Baronne.”
“Take for example that Jacques-Mars. He might be viewed as more charming than someone such as …” She appeared to be searching for an example. “Someone like Monsieur de Barras. His deep regard for his wife has made him, I’m afraid, rather poor company at present, but he is an excellent man. He is both wealthy and of the sword, which as you know has become rather unusual these days.”
Lili felt her heart plummet. I should have known this was coming. “When his time of mourning has passed,” the baroness went on, “he will begin looking for a new wife, since he has two young children, and a woman is better suited to attend to the needs of the young.”
Please don’t say any more. Lili fought the urge to run out of the church—anywhere, even in the rain, in the dark—stumbling along the riverbank until she fell in, if that was what she needed to do to avoid hearing what she thought might be coming next.
“Do not get your head turned about your prospects when you are at Versailles,” Baronne Lomont went on. “You are young and attractive enough, and I hope you will enjoy the time before you marry, but you would be well advised to keep an open mind about men like Robert de Barras, and the kind of match you will eventually be able to make with your limited assets and standing.”
Lili’s knees felt weak and she pulled her elbow in, tightening the elder woman’s arm against her body.
“I can see you are affected by my words,” Baronne Lomont said. “You are a good girl, Stanislas-Adélaïde.” She extricated herself to lower one knee in front of the altar and cross herself. Lili did the same, just as the celebrant began the mass.
“Introibo ad altare Dei,” the priest intoned. “I will go in to the altar of God …”
“Who giveth joy to my youth,” Lili murmured in response,
wondering if perhaps both joy and youth were gifts God had withdrawn from her in the course of a single afternoon.
THE COACH TAKING
Julie de Bercy and the two girls to Versailles two days later sped through the outskirts of Paris into the countryside. In the glare of the frosty morning, Delphine’s face was pallid with apprehension and exhaustion after a night of fitful sleep. Though women were not expected to travel in anything as impractical as panniers, Delphine had insisted on wearing a dress whose tailoring required a hard busk to flatten her chest and stomach, and she had been fighting back tears from the jarring of the coach as it bounced along.
From time to time gleaners in the fields looked up as the black-lacquered coach passed, but it was too modest to attract much attention compared to the ornately gilded royal carriages going to and from Versailles. Indifferent to their presence, a man checked a snare while one of his dogs sniffed the brush around him and the other urinated against a tree trunk, sending a cloud of vapor into the frosty air.
What is that man’s life like? Lili wondered. Does he come home happy, or cursing his wet feet and poor luck? Is there a baby crying while he eats his dinner and his dogs beg for scraps? She looked across the carriage to Maman and Delphine. Both sat staring at nothing, Maman with drooping eyes as she succumbed to the sleep-inducing jostling of the coach, and Delphine wide-eyed and rigid as a pole. We’re hurtling past that man’s world, and he cares as little about us as we do about him.
Everyone’s alone, she thought, wondering why this hadn’t occurred to her before.
Maman falling asleep across from her, after a morning dealing with a frantic Delphine and a complicated departure from home—what was her life really like? Lili felt a sudden rush of shame. She had never considered that Maman’s life might be hard in ways Lili could not understand. Delphine was silently dabbing at a wet cheek. Why
was she crying? Maybe we never really know other people, Lili thought. We only know what we expect of them, and sometimes only notice them at all when they do something else instead.
Lili looked out the window again, remembering stepping down from the carriage on the way to the abbey and seeing not the block of buildings she expected but a field much like this one, though smaller and hemmed in. She shut her eyes, thinking of Rousseau and the book that had ended her convent days. “Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains,” he had said to her in the salon. It had certainly turned out to be truer than she realized. What was the difference, really, between memorizing pages of catechism in a cell and spending days sequestered upstairs at Hôtel Bercy while she practiced a perfect curtsey for the queen?