Goddess (17 page)

A horrified whisper sweeps the room.

Word has reached them. Three duels. Three victories. Even the noble d’Uzès lies dead in the street. Or the gardens. Or perhaps they aren’t dead, but mortally, treacherously wounded. Treachery is certain, or possibly sorcery, for who can believe that the opera singer could defeat the court’s finest hotheads?

Monsieur waves to a page. ‘Bring her to me.’

The young man gapes at him, mortified. What next?

‘Now!’

The woman in breeches bows before him, lifts her face, and looks into his eyes as no-one but his beloved Philippe is brave enough to do.

‘Your Grace,’ she begins. ‘In the rue Saint-Thomas du Louvre three gentlemen lie stretched on the street. Less than an hour ago they were excessively hot in the head, but the night air might perhaps chill them. Kindly give orders that they be attended by a surgeon.’

He raises a finger, and it is done.

‘You are a chevalier, after all, I see,’ says Monsieur. ‘Your name, sir?’

‘I am no chevalier, but Julie—Mademoiselle de Maupin.’

‘I knew you, of course. Still performing your old tricks? I have heard you sing. Your debut was as Pallas Athéna, I recall, and here you are, come among us as an Amazon.’

Her head bows.

‘Rise,’ he says. ‘Look at me.’

She does. His heart is still sore for her, for the girl.

‘My brother the King has banned duelling. You must know this.’

‘Forgive me. I was challenged.’

‘By three men? How can that be?’

‘I provoked them,’ she admits. ‘I didn’t mean to. They took exception to my—’

‘I saw it.’

She presses her lips together.

‘You are wounded?’ he asks.

‘Not by a blade. Your Grace knows that I do not kill His Majesty’s subjects, and that there are sweeter meetings than are found at a sword’s point.’

He can’t speak of it. His chest constricts with something like sorrow, something like love, like the ferocity he felt when he first held his son: a murderously protective, incomprehensible ache.

‘But you fought. In the street. With three men.’

‘Not all at once, Your Grace. Although I could have.’

‘I have no doubt.’ Laughter bubbles in his throat and he fights it down. The courtiers are watchful, will report it all to Louis, and he’ll get all righteous and kingly and there’ll be a scene. So Monsieur hides his smile behind one gloved hand.

‘Be still, gadfly. Consider yourself chastened. I reprimand you, on behalf of the King.’ He says it aloud so they can all hear.

She drops to one knee. She’s seen the baritones do that many a time on stage, offering themselves up to some god or other.

Then Monsieur leans forward and whispers, ‘If I were you, I’d leave the city for a while. Months. My brother will be angry, and your victims—the girl’s family—they’ll be crying out for blood. The house of d’Uzès is prickly enough at the best of times. You’ll be safer elsewhere. Anywhere.’

‘I only just found her.’ She sinks further down, onto both knees.

‘I know. But you will find her again. Believe me. Do you need anything? Money?’

Julie looks up, surprised. ‘Your Grace’s friendship is enough.’

‘You have it. Ask my brother, the King, he will tell you: I have a soft spot for circus performers, stray dogs and contraltos in breeches. I forgive them any trespass, and I celebrate their goodness, their uniqueness, with all my might.’

‘You are very good, Your Grace.’

‘Yes. I am.’ Monsieur smiles. Julie sees the bad teeth, the thinning face—the humanity of him. ‘Go now. Return only when it’s safe. One day, you will appear again on stage with the Opéra and all will be forgiven. I promise.’

After she leaves, he sits and watches more dancing. Fidgets. Drinks too much. This is his world, the alternative court of France. Some say the more civilised court. More cultured. More circumspect than Versailles. More fashionable.

Monsieur holds court just as theatrically as his brother, but he allows his subjects closer to him. Too close, it is thought in certain quarters. He likes people, which his brother does not. He likes talking with women, adores sleeping with men, loves watching them all, dancing, loving, fighting—being human.

Some of them he likes more than others, he cannot lie. He feels too much, loves too deeply. His real vice.

Madame chatters with her flock of ladies, all pretending not to be thrilled at the evening’s unexpected excitement and desperate for the night to be over so they can discuss it all again in the morning in the comfort of the boudoir.

Monsieur imagines the dark hours ahead, in bed with Philippe; the tales he’ll be able to tell, in whispers—Philippe’s face when he hears about the kiss, their stifled laughter when they think about those three buffoons falling to the sword of La Maupin. The idiots. Can’t they see the fire in her? Can’t they see past the breeches to the fine porcelain heart?

No.

But I see her. And she sees the truth in me. In her I am purified, Philippe is purified, for now we know that our love can be as perfect as that one kiss I witnessed this evening. We are not evil. We are drenched in sunlight. By those lips we were blessed.

Monsieur smears tears across his face, wonders what La Maupin would say if she knew his thoughts.

I’m an old fool.

There’s a flurry of fans. He sighs. His wife is waving at him.

‘Monsieur! I’m bored. Nothing interesting ever happens in Paris.’

I
NFATUATION IS A STUPID THING, ISN’T IT
?

We know it makes us silly, sleepless, impatient with our friends, rude to our servants, rough with the horses, careless of our own health—and yet—and yet. We can’t help it—can’t help ourselves. Can we? Any of us?

None of us is exempt. Even the greatest men in the land are prey to the whims of their hearts. Poor Monsieur had the boy, Philippe. D’Armagnac’s brother. A spiteful little wretch, but Monsieur adored him, and that’s all that matters. Both the younger brothers of great men. Perhaps that’s what it was.

Louis himself spends more nights in Madame de Maintenon’s apartments than his own. That’s just how it is, in this world.

Even the great Jeanne d’Arc had her infatuation with the Dauphin. He was unworthy of her—history has proved that.

Our Dauphin—yes, it’s true—was once infatuated with the most beautiful woman in Paris—in France.

No, not me. Although I thank you for the first compliment you’ve ever paid me. No. I’ve never been on good terms with the Dauphin. He’s a fool. Why is that so often true of Dauphins, eh?

He was obsessed with Madame de Marquise de Florensac. Can’t blame him for that. I’ll speak more of her when I am able. She was no Maid of Orléans, though, let me tell you. Nobody knows it better than I. But her beauty was almost a sacred thing. You wouldn’t be in any doubt, if you’d seen her, that her face was a gift of God.

The Dauphin was besotted, and that’s always dangerous—for him, for the girl, perhaps for the whole court. So Monsieur stepped in—the King was no use by then, so that dear man decided to do what only someone in the royal family could do or risk incurring the Dauphin’s wrath—and he sent her away.

To a convent, and then to Brussels.

You see? It’s always Brussels.

That’s where I went, too. After the famous three duels.

No, she wasn’t there. Not then. That was later, the thing with the Dauphin. I forget the details. After the ball, she stayed in Paris. With her husband, who didn’t let her out of his sight again for several years. And then look what happened.

But in the meantime, I was in Brussels. Alone. Although not for long.

I sang
Amadis
there. Speaking of great romances. I was always fond of
Amadis
—I sang it many times, in Paris, in Brussels. The music itself is so-so, except for that one glorious air. But the story—it’s a silly tale, really. D’Albert once showed me the book—an immense row of volumes in his library, all in Spanish. The
tragédie
I knew, it turned out, was just a small fragment. It was the King’s favourite, and he had Lully write the music. So you see, even a king approved of the story—he fancied himself as a knight errant, I think—but the whole story,
Amadis de Gaule
, goes on and on, longer even than my own. I haven’t read the whole thing—dear God, it has more pages than the Bible. But in there I read of a woman who goes about dressed as a man—a brave woman—and falls in love with another. You see?

I memorised the lines—I nearly wept when I heard them first, there in d’Albert’s library. He read them aloud to me. Sweet, darling boy. She says: ‘For a girl to love a girl, alas, what is that—except to be in love with the moon, and try to take it between your teeth?’

She breaks my heart, the Amazon in that book. I wish Lully had written music for those words. How I would have sung it—the whole of Paris might have sobbed at my feet.

Perhaps it has. Perhaps it will, one day—weep for me. For my kind.

Having Brussels sob at your feet is not quite the same feeling, but it’s not so bad. Exile. There are worse places. Worse things. Just look around you, look at me.

The pamphlets, the street songs—they relate some of the tales truly enough, as true as my words to you. Others invent and embroider and twist my life like toffee, into scandal or bawdy. You’d never believe the number of men I’ve killed, the dozens of women and men I’ve bedded, according to them. Well, perhaps you would, but please don’t. The tradesmen, the shopkeepers, the street sellers—they believed it all, embellished the tales themselves, no doubt. It’s as if they imagined the streets of Paris to be scattered with the corpses of those who had faced me, as if they believed every woman in France would open her boudoir door to my knock. Ah, if only it had been so.

I wonder what they’re saying now. Are they singing of my death? I don’t begrudge them that. But I hope it’s a dirge, not a ditty.

Why did Paris wish it to be so—all the duels and all the infamy? Why did the city envy me for it, hate me for it, and then wish it again? How could those who invented the tales and composed the ditties come to believe their confections were true?

I can’t comprehend it, myself. At the time, I laughed aloud at every outrageous broadsheet, sang the songs backstage to annoy the others. But there were days when even I could find no humour in it. There are days when you want to climb into a bathtub and open your veins like Seneca, or burn every pamphlet in a great bonfire in the Tuileries.

But I learned. Instead you keep your face veiled—you stay off the streets, off the stage, for a while. You eat at home, frugally. No duels. No affairs. You wear brown. Pay your servants a little extra something. Rehearse. Drill. Work hard. Laugh heartily at every joke told at your expense. After a while, the stories change, the songs are in someone else’s honour. At Louis’s court, there’s always somebody doing something scandalous or stupid, and soon enough the wits of the palace and the city will learn of it. Off they will go, sniffing after a new scent.

Then I emerge, to appear in the next show. Everyone remembers why they loved me, and all—or almost all—is forgiven. There are songs instead about Thévenard, or the Dauphin, or that sour-faced Madame de Maintenon. I sing along. We all do.

So that time, after the duels, I took to the road—to the air. I vanished from sight, or at least out of view of those sharp-eyed gendarmes. I rode again through the night, through the damp forests, forded nameless rivers and braved the local bandits. Just a horse, a cloak, a blade, a song. Perhaps a loaf of bread and a jug of wine. I was a troubadour—perhaps what the Spanish would call a
picaro
. A
picora
, in my case. Spain. Bah! I will get to that, by and by. Patience. But first—you recall—the night of the duels, the night of the kiss, I rode north.

In my exile in Brussels I was treated like a queen. Literally. But it was an odd, bereft feeling, at first. I felt as if, that night at the ball, I found my lost—or maybe fractured—soul. In her eyes. Her face. Thérèse. Marie-Thérèse.

A kiss. That’s all. Not even a dance. Certainly not a courtship. Then she was bundled out of sight and I found myself on a fast horse, fleeing the gendarmes and their righteous grasp.

They weren’t after me at all, as it turns out, but I didn’t know that. Monsieur had seen to it. Still, I was better off well away from the city—out of mind, if you like. Out of Paris. Into the fog and the heavy air. Not good for your chest, you know. For your throat. Riding at night, missing someone I didn’t even know—had barely met—as if my heart was broken all over again. How could I know, then, what she would—could—become to me?

I knew nothing. I was wrong. So hilariously, pathetically wrong. But never mind. You can’t change history. At least, not much. You can elbow it out of the way from time to time, but it comes back to its true course, like water—like love.

B
RUSSELS.
T
HE CITY GATES
. Dusk. Four guards. Two pikemen. All arguing with a farmer on a dilapidated cart. At once.

A horseman approaches at a canter. A fine black horse. French saddle. A chevalier, perhaps, in a great cloak and feathered hat and ready sword.

Reins in. Halts.

‘Good evening.’ The voice—it’s not quite—could it be? ‘Do you speak French, my good men?’

‘Of course we do. Where do you think you are? The moon?’

It is a woman. In boots. She’s laughing. She’s—why, she’s beautiful.

‘I beg your pardon. May I pass?’

‘Your papers?’

A flourish. A fine leather glove. A smile.

‘They are all in order,’ Julie says. ‘Authorised by the King’s brother. Signed by the Cardinal himself.’

‘Let me see.’ A sergeant pushes the others out of the way. ‘Madame de Maupin?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘We were told to expect you.’

‘Really?’

‘There was a letter yesterday. From the palace.’ The sergeant takes hold of the reins.

Julie resists the temptation to drag the horse’s head around out of reach. ‘From Versailles?’

‘No, no. From our palace—from the Elector’s secretary.’

‘Please. I can explain.’

She tries to take the papers back. Can’t quite reach. Her hand goes instead to her sword.

The sergeant holds his ground. ‘We were told to escort you to the Quai.’

‘What is that? Some kind of lock-up?’

Laughter.

‘No, no, madame. It’s the opera house.’

They are all waiting for her. The musical
surintendant
. The
directeur
. Two sopranos. A dozen secretaries. A baritone even taller than Thévenard. A handsome
haute-contre
with charmingly slender ankles.

They greet her with cries, welcoming smiles, a smattering of applause. They were in the middle of rehearsals, someone explains, when the news came. They are saved. It’s a week since the girl playing Minerve came down with a fever. They had hoped—but, no—it’s no use. She can’t perform. Nobody else can carry it off. It’s a big sing.

But now, their saviour—if it’s not blasphemous—that’s how it feels—a sign of God’s favour—the great good luck of the company—and here she is, among them—as majestic as everyone says—as brilliant as—yes, let’s not pretend—she is indeed wearing breeches and sword, just like the rumours—the tales spread from Paris and across Europe—La Maupin. Here. Now.

Singing as if her heart might break.

If they fear her a little, so be it. In the days that follow, while she spends her days in rehearsal and her nights sitting alone, the incredible news arrives in houses all over Brussels, in letters from family, friends, mere acquaintances from Paris. There was a duel—she kissed a girl—tried to abduct an innocent maiden—no, a married woman—dragged her screaming from the ballroom. No, she fell in love. That’s all. She fought dozens of men. Three are dead. Four. Possibly seven. On the ballroom floor. In the streets. On the steps of the Palais-Royal. A frenzy. No, a cold-hearted assassination. No, a misunderstanding. She’s a monster. She’s mistaken. She’s Monsieur’s favourite—and you know what they say about him.

Now she’s here. Striding across the stage on the opening night of
Thésée
as if she was born for this moment, born to astonish, to entertain—to enthral. She is a goddess, dwelling on high, intervening from the heavens in the pitiful affairs of humans—Minerve the wise, the magical. Minerve the goddess of music, of poetry, of war. Minerve—La Maupin? Who else could La Maupin be? Who else could possibly play Minerve? Impossible to imagine, ever again, that a mortal singer, a mere woman, will sing these words.

She wrings every tear, every ounce of pity, from the
parterre
, even from the benches above. She is enough, almost, for the crowd to forgive her the duels, the outrage, to forgive the French for the wars, the siege, the many deaths. But not quite. Instead, they forgive her for being French. After all, she can’t help that.

In the royal box, the Elector, the great Maximilian Emanuel himself, God’s representative on this earth—or, at least, the Emperor’s representative in Brussels—feels his chest flutter like a girl’s. His breeches tighten uncomfortably. He can hear his own breath, loud and jagged. He watches as this woman—this deity—from Paris holds the hearts of the good people of Brussels in her warm hand and squeezes.

Beside him, his Polish princess sits as open-mouthed and amazed as everyone else.

The next morning, once Maximilian has recovered his composure and eaten his breakfast, he summons La Maupin to the palace. To his bed.