Goddess (16 page)

H
E GROVELLED AT MY FEET
. Just think of it. Six feet of quivering
haute-contre
on the floor before me, begging forgiveness and filled with remorse. How he apologised. How he begged their forgiveness—and mine. Oh, how they marvelled at my audacity, my power, my sheer—there’s no other word for it, forgive me—brilliance.

No. That’s what I told myself, what I told everyone. But now—the truth. You speak of forgiveness. Why is it that men can be forgiven so much, in life and in death? When I was little, I forgave my father, time and time again. I suppose I even loved him in a way.

I can’t forgive Duménil, not even now, for all his petty lies and crimes. He deserved a good beating. From that day on, I swear to you, the braggart didn’t dare lay his cowardly hands on any of those women. Unless, of course, the women wished it. Which, I must admit, they sometimes did.

Even Fanchon—sweet Fanchon. Well, she went on with her life as if nothing had happened. They all did.

But I was her champion. Surely. Like the knights in the old tales, in the ballads. I wore her handkerchief at my breast, I defended her from evil, I kept her safe from straying hands—although I can admit now that sometimes she might have preferred if I hadn’t.

She was a bit of a flirt. I can admit, too, that I was as susceptible to it as Duménil, as the Dauphin, as half the men in France. I thought—I imagined—that her smiles were meant only for me, and that my own charms were irresistible. I see it now. All of it. But I’m not ashamed. Not of that.

It’s funny, but it appeared to me then that I could have anyone I wanted. Indeed, I did. Too often, I had lovers I didn’t even want. A pretty smile. A strong thigh. The most handsome man, the loveliest woman. Whoever. If there was someone who seemed untouchable, I wanted to be the first to touch them. If there was a girl begging to be kissed, then let my lips be her first. I confess my choices weren’t always wise—if I was a little drunk, or a little foolhardy, I might wake up next to someone I barely even liked. Or remembered.

True enough. Sad, even. For them. Sometimes for me. I couldn’t love them. None of them. Not really. They couldn’t touch me, I wouldn’t allow it—but that’s enough. I’ll say no more about that.

I’m not proud of it. Well, not all of it, anyway. But that’s how it was, in those first few months, the first year or so, of being me—of being La Maupin. Heady times. Perhaps a little too much so.

I was too fabulous. Too young. Eighteen years old, with the world throwing itself at my feet—sending me flowers and wine and sides of pork and daughters and more wine and … It’s a wonder I ever got out of bed to go to rehearsal.

I don’t recommend it.

People were envious of me, too. Even Thévenard. Even d’Albert—strutting back into town after some battle or other, a war hero—a darling. Told everyone I was his woman. Again.

Sorted that out soon enough. I threatened to run him through again, and heard no more about it.

I’m nobody’s woman. Never was. Never wanted to be—not since Avignon, since Clara. Had refused plenty of offers, some very lucrative—as if I care about that. I don’t mind someone looking after me, don’t get me wrong. I won’t turn away the odd bouquet, a trinket, a fine mare. I’m not an idiot. But I do get fidgety. Hate obligation. I am likely to lash out, like a horse unused to traces.

There did come a time when I gave myself up, freely, to be possessed, to be as one. But, no. I can’t tell you about that. Not yet. I will. I have to. Or there will be no-one to bear witness, no-one to remember her, and me, and one moment in a ballroom.

But what am I saying?

Half of Paris was there.

It’s not something any of them will ever forget.

T
HERE.
I
N THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM
. A girl. Of surpassing beauty, as they say in the romance novels. Of heart-rupturing beauty. She’s listening to an old man talk as if he were the most important person on earth.

Julie knows that trick, knows it well.

The girl is a master at it. She’s smiling now, deep into his eyes, nods as he bows, takes his leave, and relinquishes her to a crowd of impatient young men.

Then she looks up.

Does the earth really shatter? Julie hardly knows. Her pulse, her lungs, her life, contract to nothing, so that she dies, right there on the polished floors of the Palais-Royal ballroom, and nobody even knows, nobody sees it, nobody realises except her and the girl, who is also dead, who no longer breathes or feels her heart or her body or anything except a flaming certainty that her life has, in this moment, altered forever, and the room and the chatter drop away and there’s nobody there, just the two of them.

Someone dances through—slashes through—the shaft of light that connects them, and they both jolt back into breath, into life, like drowning men brought ashore, panting and sick and frightened and more alive than anyone, ever.

Then the girl is out of sight, lost in the crowd as Monsieur and Madame enter the ballroom. Everyone bows to Their Highnesses, shuffling in their slippers, a million yards of silk rustling at the same time, a cloud of butterflies, but where—where is she?

Julie is the first to move. She can’t help it. She pushes someone aside. Apologises. Sidesteps a dowager sunk in a deep curtsey. So many people. What are they doing here? Why are they in her way, in her world, when all she wants is the girl? Even a glimpse, even a—

The orchestra strikes up a
coranto
. Monsieur loves a
coranto
, although he always wishes—always—that just once he could dance it with his love instead of this princess he married. But instead he takes her hand and leads her onto the floor and simply pretends, as he always does, that he’s dancing with Philippe. He reminds himself that it’s Philippe’s body he will feel against his tonight—the hard backbone, the rough skin on his throat—and not his wife’s fleshy thighs.

But her hand is in his, and he can feel the sweat in her palm as the dance picks up tempo, and it’s all he can do not to walk out right now, with the whole of Paris watching, down the mirrored hallways and marble stairs, past the tapestries and the oblivious footmen, across the forecourt and home to his bedchamber and his man.

But he knows his duty. He is the brother of the greatest king in history. He is a radiant ornament in the court of the Sun. His duty is to dance. So he does. Smiles and applauds the orchestra. Nods to the senior courtiers. Winks at his friends. Notices that the tall contralto from the Académie is wearing men’s clothes—crimson silk amid the gowns and petticoats and fluttering fans. Her sword doesn’t look entirely ceremonial, and she appears to be either ravaged and desperate or badly hungover.

This—she—could be fun.

Monsieur makes himself comfortable on what passes for a throne at these things and motions for a glass of wine. A footstool. Perhaps some ice-cream. He’s ready to watch the show.

There’s a black-haired page whose breeches are far too tight for his own good, and who dances the next set so obviously in Monsieur’s sight that even the prince himself is slightly repelled.

If they present themselves as meat, they cannot complain if they are devoured.

The opera singer creates a flurry in the corner, pushing someone out of her way like an old woman at a market stall. She’s so tall, so—well, remarkable—Monsieur can’t stop watching her, even though she’s moving fast through the crowd. She seems to have lost something. Or someone.

There.

A girl. She and the singer stand and gaze at each other from a distance for what feels like an hour.

Monsieur waves to one of Madame’s ladies. ‘The girl with the green eyes. The blonde. Over there. With Abbé Noye.’

She glances over quickly. ‘That’s the Marquise de Florensac, Your Grace.’

‘Ah! The young bride. We’ve not seen her at court a great deal.’

‘They spend all their time at the chateau. Her husband abhors company.’

‘Understandably.’

‘She is the daughter of Saint-Nectaire—you see, she has his eyes.’

‘She’s pretty.’

‘Very, Your Grace.’ She lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘And wealthy, so I hear, in her own right. Do you wish her to be presented?’

‘No.’ He waves her away. ‘No matter.’

The young Marquise is standing perfectly still among the swirling dancers. She has forgotten the steps, ignores Noye, who stands embarrassed by her side. She has forgotten everything but that extraordinary, beautiful, wild creature in breeches and sword belt.

Monsieur stares. He knows—sees who they are—two souls who recognised each other’s essence in an instant. This instant.

He feels for her—for them.

What a
tragédie
they perform. Each of them, no doubt, dressed this evening with care, admired her brilliant face in a looking glass, smiled at the thought of the evening ahead, of the flaring candles and swish of silk and laughter, but with no idea that tonight she would meet the one person in this world she cannot—and inevitably must—live without.

Monsieur moans softly.

The pity of it.

But look!

Julie walks through the empty spaces on the dance floor. It’s a trance, perhaps. A spell. Her body is drawn forward, beyond her control. Bewitched. The dancers move around her, sweating and giggling, but she doesn’t hear them, and the girl waits for her, still as a stone in a stream, in the centre.

Where she stops. Takes the perfect face in both hands, the blessed, magical skin against hers, leans down and kisses her own soul, kisses lips that are soft, are hers, are home.

There is a moment of complete silence.

Monsieur holds his breath.

Madame gasps.

Then all the fury in the world erupts.

Julie staggers back, shoved away by Abbé Noye. He raises a fist and she lets it land. Nothing hurts except her heart.

Someone grabs the girl and drags her away through the crowd, but Julie cannot move. Not because of the men that stand in her path but her own, stunned, self. Her life is over. That’s all there is.

But they will not leave her in peace.

Men are shouting at her, everyone at once, and Monsieur watches as she shakes her head like a boxer staggered by a blow, stares around her, and tries to walk away. They won’t let her.

Noye grasps her arm. She shrugs him off but he grabs at her again.

She blinks. ‘What?’

‘You have insulted the Marquise de Florensac.’

‘Is that her name? De Florensac.’

Perhaps she’s married. Pity. But no real obstacle.

‘Don’t you dare let that name pass your lips.’

These lips, she thinks, have done more than speak the name. They have sealed a pact.

The lips part in a smile.

Noye hisses at her, ‘Mademoiselle de Maupin, you wear that sword like a man. I hope you’re ready to die like one.’

She shrugs. ‘You don’t want to fight me.’

‘No, I want to grind your face into the ground.’

‘An unlikely outcome.’

‘I want to pierce your sinful heart—’

‘Enough threats.’ Julie pushes him away. ‘I understand. A duel.’

‘I will not honour it with that title,’ he says.

Another smile. ‘Call it what you will. Meet me at midnight in the rue Saint-Thomas du Louvre.’

She turns away from him. Before her stands that pup from the house of d’Uzès. She knows him from long ago, carousing with d’Albert. ‘Move aside, sieur, if you please.’

‘What kind of demon are you?’

She sighs. He’s not going to shut up.

‘Are you a man? Or a devil?’

‘Neither. Idiot. You know who I am. Out of my way.’

‘You have sullied the reputation of my brother—his wife—’

‘Let me guess,’ she says, peering over his shoulder in the direction of the spot where once an angel kissed her. ‘You want to challenge me?’

‘Challenge you?’ says d’Uzès with a sneer. ‘So you do declare yourself to be a man?’

‘Not at all. But I’ll fight you, since you will insist and I don’t care.’

‘My seconds will call upon you to make arrangements.’

‘Don’t bother, d’Uzès. Meet me at midnight in the rue Saint-Thomas du Louvre.’

A tap on her shoulder. She turns. A young man looking as terrified as Thévenard on opening night. He tries to speak. Fails. Then splutters. ‘You insulted my cousin—’

‘You know her?’

‘Marie-Thérèse? Of course.’

She lifts her head and glares around the room. ‘Is there anyone here who is not her relation?’

The boy blinks. Tries again. ‘My family’s honour … it’s impugned … and I—’

‘Midnight. Rue Saint-Thomas du Louvre.’ She shouts it. ‘Anyone else?’

There’s silence. Always silence.

‘Very well.’

Then she is gone.

Midnight in the rue Saint-Thomas du Louvre. She stands waiting, sword drawn. A full moon. Clouds. Shadows. The river.

The cousin is the first to arrive. His chaise halts near the corner. His friends hang back, not sure of the protocol. They are young. None of them has seen a real duel before. And this—this is perverse. A duel with a woman.

A clatter of heels on the stones.

Abbé Noye has come alone. He told no-one of the duel—challenged too hastily, didn’t consider the dishonour. There’ll be no end of trouble if his father hears he’s been fighting a woman—a whore from the Opéra. His temper gets away from him sometimes. It’s the wine. Must stop that. Next week. But now—

‘Let’s get this over,’ says Noye.

The woman smiles. ‘Gently, gently! A little patience, my lord.’

‘You wish to withdraw?’

‘Not at all,’ she says.

‘Then?’

‘I’m waiting. There’s another.’

‘Another what?’ The impudence of her! Noye notices the cousin for the first time. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I challenged him,’ says the boy. ‘Her, I mean.’

‘For the love of God.’

‘So did d’Uzès.’

‘Three of us?’

‘So it seems.’

D’Uzès arrives, borrowed sword in hand. He nods a greeting to the other men. ‘You, too?’

‘I challenged first,’ says Noye. ‘I’ll kill her.’

‘Good. Then I won’t have to.’ The cousin sounds hopeful. He likes this duel idea less and less. It seemed so obvious at the ball, as if he really had no choice. But nobody’s ever challenged a woman before. Now everyone’s done it at once. He glances quickly at her. She seems too unearthly, too still. Not afraid. Not in the least.

‘It’s terribly dark,’ he says. ‘Why aren’t the lamps lit?’

Noye looks around and shrugs. ‘What difference does it make?’

The damned woman raises her sword.

‘We commence.’ Julie salutes, the blade gleaming in the darkness.

Noye won’t salute, but he steps forward. ‘Stand aside, my friends.’

‘No need for such delicacy,’ she says. ‘I can take you all at once.’

They laugh, then. All of them, even the boy.

She doesn’t smile. ‘This is becoming tedious.’

She lunges. They don’t see what happened, her sword is too fast, only that Noye staggers against a water trough and slumps to the ground.

D’Uzès doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t salute. He moves quickly, throwing himself into a
flèche
intended to knock her off her feet. Instead, she sidesteps, thrusts as he passes, and he crashes into the wall opposite, blood swelling through his shirt. There’s a shriek then nothing, but he’s not dead, just quivering in fury and shame and filth.

Further along rue Saint-Honoré, the young man’s friends leap into his chaise and whip the horses into a gallop. Then they’re gone.

The woman turns. ‘Now you?’

She salutes the cousin, who wishes with all his heart he had never been born into the same family as Marie-Thérèse, decides he never really liked her, anyway—remembers that one summer she pushed him off a chair and everyone laughed.

But he’s a nobleman. This is the first of those moments he has trained for all his life.

He salutes. ‘
En garde
.’

Now the woman smiles. ‘You’ve never done this before, have you?’

‘That’s of no consequence.’

‘You’re scared. That’s sensible. And a better man than those two. I see no arrogance in you.’

He clenches his fingers even more tightly around his sword grip. He notices that the tip of his blade is quivering.

‘I will do my duty.’

‘Yes, you will,’ she says. ‘I see that.
En garde
.’

She doesn’t aim for his body. He is Marie-Thérèse’s cousin, after all. He even has her eyes, not quite the green of a sultan’s emerald, but a shade lighter.

When the blade pierces his arm he barely notices at first. A slight tearing sensation. He looks down.

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘
Touché
.’

‘The contrary would have surprised me.’

‘I’m bleeding.’

‘Just a little. You’ll recover.’

He falls sideways. Curls up on the cobblestones.

She wipes the blood from her sword with a scarf. Looks down. ‘You were brave. I’ll send someone to take care of you.’

He gazes up at her. So beautiful. For a monster. ‘Thank you.’

She bows. ‘An honour.’

The boy sees only a flick of her cape as she vanishes into the dark.

Monsieur can’t hide his smile when she returns to the ball. Everyone gasps at once. One woman faints. The orchestra falters. The singer is looking for the girl. Of course. But the girl has been taken home, locked in her room, no doubt, perhaps whipped by a humiliated husband.

The three men are nowhere to be seen, which means—well, it couldn’t possibly mean … could it?

An evening of gasps. Wait until he tells Philippe. The two of them have always secretly enjoyed La Maupin’s extravagance, her dramatic performances, her disdain for the witty tongues and tearing teeth of the salons. They’ve loved her more than most, because her every outrage causes d’Armagnac pain and he—Philippe’s older, contemptible brother—has created nothing but anguish for the lovers. Tomorrow morning, when d’Armagnac hears the news, he’ll be apoplectic. How wonderful.