Goddess (24 page)

F
ANCHON
M
OREAU NOTICES HIM FIRST.

‘That gentleman—there—the chevalier with the gold sash. Do you know him?’

The other women peep over the top of fluttering fans.

‘No, but I wish I did.’

‘My goodness. What a fine pair of ankles.’

‘And the eyelashes?’

‘Divine.’

‘He’s coming over!’ Fanchon hisses. ‘Remember, I saw him first.’

Only one of the women doesn’t look. She gazes out of the window towards the Grande Écurie.

The Chevalier du Bouillon knows as well as the singers the importance of a dramatic entrance. He throws his arms wide and advances upon them like Thévenard playing Apollo.

‘My dear ladies. My heroines.’

There’s a gasp from behind the fans.

He bows. ‘Allow me to apologise for the unforgivable nature of my fellow human beings. Never have I seen such disgraceful behaviour. And here, at Versailles, the centre of the civilised world. You poor things.’

‘You are very kind, sir.’ The blonde one, Fanchon, makes a gracious bow. ‘It is not we who are distraught, sir, but our poor Théobalde.’

‘But of course! For his music to be so disparaged.’

‘He feels disgraced.’

The handsome chevalier does not allow himself to laugh. He hated
Scylla
as much as the rest of them, despises the
tragédies
anyway—much prefers the Comédie-Française—hissed loudly himself, and cheered ever louder when the cast left the stage. But he couldn’t stop staring at the girl—the tall one with the glorious hair—the infamous La Maupin. He has heard of her, everyone has, has heard all the stories, but never imagined she would be so … But she’s not looking at him. The blonde one keeps talking. They all do.

‘We are but his instruments, our poor Théobalde,’ says Fanchon, ‘and we must weather the storm.’

‘You are not deserving of a moment’s approbation.’ The chevalier bows again. That damned woman is paying no attention whatsoever.

By the window, La Maupin picks a ripe pear from the platter. It’s one of the small mottled ones from the palace gardens. She turns it in her hands, remembering the gravel paths through the potager under her bare feet, the gardeners in their brown smocks, grumbling about the early frost, their cold toes, digging horse manure into the earth—and a young girl in breeches hiding behind the pear tree with the first of the harvest—still firm, grainy on the tongue, but sweet and even more so for being stolen, forbidden—although she realises now that the gardeners must have seen her sneaking behind the espalier frames, must have known, must have allowed her to take the first bite of the fruit they so carefully guarded.

She cuts into it, through the skin and into creamy flesh, the silver knife cold in her hand. A pool of juice gathers in her palm, drips down her wrist, onto the floor. She watches it, watches the man with the fine ankles trying to get her attention—watches the dancers, the posers, the girls with the fans laughing at nothing, Fanchon working hard at pretending that she—she, La Maupin!—doesn’t exist. As if she had never existed, never caressed her so softly—so fiercely—that Fanchon wept in wonder, shouted ecstasies too wild to clearly recall, clung to her like a kitten.

So be it.

Julie swallows a slice of pear, tries to parry the pain away, but it won’t work. Not here. Not anymore. Her guard is slipping. She must be getting old. Nearly thirty and weary. Too weary.

She sees d’Armagnac in the corner, bored and alone, the Comtesse and her latest protégée surrounded by elderly men, a footman yawning, that
abbé
with the dreadful Swiss accent picking his nose—and then d’Albert appears beside her.

‘Émilie. Darling.’ He kisses her hand.

‘Here you are.’ Her eyes rest on his dear, familiar face. ‘Back in the good books?’

‘So it would seem.’

‘That didn’t take long.’

‘What do you mean? I’ve been away forever. Didn’t you miss me?’

She thinks about teasing him, but doesn’t have the energy. ‘I did, of course. I’m glad you’re back.’

‘You didn’t visit me in prison.’

‘No. Nasty place.’

‘You could have tried.’

‘But you’ve been out for months.’

‘My father banished me to the country—I’ve been sitting about with nothing to do. I thought it would never end.’

‘Still, a few months of rural exile obviously suit you.’ She raises her eyebrows, looks over his belly, his thighs.

‘Do I look that fat?’

‘Maybe a little.’

‘So insulting. I should challenge you for that.’

‘Please do. It ended so well last time.’

He smiles at the memory of nearly dying at her hands. She loves how he does that.

‘Will you come to Paris next, Joseph? The city has missed you.’

‘Of course.’

‘For how long?’

‘Until Christmas.’

‘Perfect.’

‘Are you well, Émilie? You look …’

‘Don’t you start.’

‘… a little melancholy.’

‘Me? Nonsense.’ She waves a dismissive hand. ‘Now. What mischief shall we get up to?’

The chevalier with the ankles appears beside them. They both stare at him—they had forgotten the existence of the hundreds of people in the gallery—the singers with the fans, the gossips.

The chevalier bows deeply to d’Albert—to her.

‘Forgive me for interrupting, my friend,’ he says. ‘You must introduce me to this young lady.’

‘Why?’ Julie asks, without even looking at him.

‘Because I am here. And I wish it.’

‘I do not.’

The woman turns—walks away from him. Never happened before. He blinks.

‘D’Albert—stop her! What is she doing?’

‘What she wants, as always.’

‘No. That’s—she can’t—’

‘But, as you see, she has.’

‘Where is she going?’

‘Who knows?’

But d’Albert does know—she will go to the stables, the gardens—the shadows—a neglected grave. He sighs.

The chevalier waits another moment before sighing, too. Deeply. ‘Ah! What a remarkable creature.’

‘Yes.’ D’Albert’s smile is wary.

‘Then, my good Comte—if I may be permitted to ask—the rumours are true?’

‘Which ones?’

‘That she is your—you are lucky enough to …?’

‘She is my friend,’ says d’Albert in what he hopes is a warning tone. ‘My dearest friend.’

‘Ah. I see. Excellent. So I may yet hope?’

‘Hope is open to us all, my dear Chevalier. Paradise is more exclusive.’

They bow and part. One tastes disgust, one tastes desire.

Days later. A world away from the painted salons of Versailles—a cabaret near the river, the one with the livery on one side and the brothel on the other. Everything a man could wish. Two friends sit by the fire, pipes between their teeth, boots resting on the hearth. They don’t talk much. They don’t have to. The young man almost lets his tankard slip to the floor. The woman is drinking wine. A great deal of it.

She orders another bottle.

He raises his eyebrows. He’s been practising that.

‘You are feeling a little reckless, perhaps?’ he says.

‘None of your business, Joseph.’

‘But it is—or it will be soon—inevitably.’

‘I can look after myself.’

‘Of that I am sure.’

A few minutes of silence.

‘But seriously, Émilie, I’ve never seen you drink like this.’ He glances at the empty bottles on the table.

‘What of it?’

‘Last night you could barely stand.’

‘You’ve been the same, many a time.’ Julie fills her glass.

‘I know. But not you—well, rarely. Something’s wrong.’

‘Everything’s wrong. Everything has always been wrong.’

‘But, Émilie—’

‘Let’s just drink.’ She stares into the fire. ‘Silently.’

‘My friend, if you—’

‘Enough!’

Her hand is on her sword hilt.

He shrugs. ‘As you wish.’

But the next day it’s the same. And the day after. On the Sunday, d’Albert takes a detour after Mass—he’s promised to meet her for yet another bout of drinking and fire-staring and not talking. But first he pushes his way slowly through a room crowded with young men in silk stockings, ladies at cards, a cloud of wig powder, looking for one face, one reassuring presence. There. At last.

‘Comtesse.’ He bows.

‘Comte d’Albert. A pleasure.’

‘May we speak?’

‘I am at your disposal, as always.’

He takes her arm. The lace is soft to the touch. He lowers his voice, turns his face away from the room so nobody can hear him.

‘You will excuse my impertinence,’ he says.

‘That depends on the circumstances.’

‘We’ve never acknowledged that we have a mutual acquaintance.’

‘Must we acknowledge it now?’ The Comtesse smiles graciously and nods to someone on the other side of the room.

‘It’s delicate, I know,’ says d’Albert, ‘but I’m worried.’

‘About her?’

‘Yes. Madame de Maupin.’

‘Julie? What has happened?’

She leads him to a corner of the room where the racket from the card tables will provide more privacy.

‘Another duel?’ she whispers.

‘Nothing like that. She’s just—I can’t explain it, really.’

‘Then what am I to do?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘But she’s drunk. All the time.’

A deep furrow appears in the Comtesse’s perfect forehead. ‘That is odd. Unlike her.’

‘And melancholy. Dangerously so.’

‘I would not have thought it possible.’

‘Nor I. Yet it is.’

‘You must understand,’ she says, although the admission causes more pain than she’s willing to reveal, ‘I haven’t seen Julie for months, except on stage. And even then—where is she living?’

‘She has rooms in the Marais but is hardly ever there. I don’t know where she goes.’

‘She has always been mysterious.’

‘I know that better than anyone,’ says d’Albert. ‘But now, my father is expecting me in Champagne for the festivities. I am afraid to leave her alone.’

‘It is that bad?’ It’s all she can do to stop herself clutching at her breast, crying out in fear. Instead she holds his gaze and keeps her breath steady.

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘I myself am expected to be at Versailles for Christmas, but I will visit her before I leave.’

‘Thank you, Comtesse.’

She tries. God knows, she tries everything. But the singer will not meet with her, will not respond to the calling cards, the knock on the door, the letters.

And then it’s midwinter and the city is deserted. La Maupin is alone in her room with a few bottles of wine, a loaf of stale bread, a mouse or two.

She wanders out one evening, still drunk, into the windswept city. Stares at the river, the boats. Up at the houses that cluster on the Pont Saint-Michel. The seagulls. Down at the greasy necks of apprentice oarsmen, sculling swiftly from the docks and across the channel. She gazes at the great cathedral on the island. Back towards the fortress towers, and the old palace. Her first home.

Then the water. It’s not deep enough to drown in, she calculates. Not properly. She’d make a mess of it. Someone would pull her out and then she’d die of a chill instead, after a long, harrowing illness. No. There must be a better way. A carriage, perhaps—she could throw herself in its path. She hears one now.

Instead it slows. Whoever is in it is waving to her.

She turns back to the river. She could challenge him, let him beat her—whoever he is. But somehow that galls. She must die unbeaten. By swords, at least. Everything else—every other thing and person in the entire world—has beaten her, already. Somehow. Only the river matters, and the cathedral.

The person waving from the carriage is not d’Albert. Not the Comtesse. Or Fanchon. For one wild moment she imagines—but no—not Clara. They cannot help her now. None of them.

She whispers to the sky, to the river, to a girl she once knew, ‘Forgive me, my love. Farewell.’

The lunatic in the carriage is still waving, shouting her name. An opera devotee, perhaps, or some old lover or enemy. She doesn’t care. She never cares.

He is beside her now. It’s that good-looking chevalier. Of all people.

‘Madame de Maupin?’

No answer.

‘May I be of some assistance to you?’

She doesn’t even look at him.

He sees the dirt in her hair, smells days’ worth of wine and a stink reminiscent of the guardhouse. Something in him falters, breaks. He grasps her arm.

‘Would you do me the honour of dining with me?’

He gives her little choice and, for once—for the first time in her entire life—she doesn’t fight back.

I
WAS MORE OF A CHEVALIER
than he was. All the women wanted him—the society ladies and every opera singer—so I ignored him completely. He couldn’t help himself. He fell at my feet, begged me to adore him.

What choice does a woman have in such circumstances, eh? It’s only fair, after all, to accede to such demands, such fervent pleading. If you have it in you to grant someone’s fondest wish, why wouldn’t you? I admit that when I met him I was in a bad way—he saved me, in a sense, in a moment, though he never knew it.

He was handsome, I’ll grant you. Knew how to wear a sword with flair, although he had no idea how to use it. But I forgave him that, as I forgave him so much, so often, over those months. He was kind, restful. He looked after me as no man had ever done.

Very well. It’s true. He saved me. From the river, from myself. I was weak. There is a price to be paid for being me. I get no peace—not then, not now. Demons pursue me. People want to touch me—everyone does, all the time. They want to be me or fight me or fuck me. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the demons from the lovers, the admirers from the assassins.

But he—he was simply sweetness. He cleaned me up and stroked my hair and asked me no questions. He fed me bread fried in duck fat and put a sword in my hand and begged me to train with him every morning until I was ready to face the world again. And the world welcomed us back.

I must admit, since we’re on the topic of vanity, so delicately raised by you, that we made a gorgeous couple. We were admired much more than we truly admired each other, but the admiration of others feeds both vanity and conviction. We believed ourselves to be fabulous, to be invincible, to be the most romantic of lovers—although after the first few weeks we went home to our separate beds quite relieved to be apart. We met for supper, attended every soirée together, danced all night at each society ball, fluttered and smirked and made a great show of manners and mischief—not for us, but for everyone else. I felt then, for the first time, how it must feel to be married to a handsome man; how it must be to have the world approve of your lover—and of you; how it must feel to wake each morning content in the knowledge that the vicious whips of gossip will be lashing someone else’s back today.

It didn’t last long. Of course not. We’re neither of us made for constancy, and we were certainly not made for each other. We took other partners for the first dance at the ball, we arrived in separate chaises to the salons, we supped alone. We fell apart. He took up with Fanchon. It didn’t matter. Neither of us grieved much.

But I realise now that his companionship—his friendship—just as much as the curve of his spine close to mine in the dark hours, kept me, for a while, from the edge of the crevice into which I was about to fall, so famously, so spectacularly, and from which I crawled, bloodied and alone, and then strode into the most glorious years of my life.

But that, as they say, is a tale for another day. I don’t have the strength for that. For any of this.

Here I am talking about glory while the light seeps from my body. Sorrow drives it from me. I see only lengthening shadows.

Grief is a strange, fearful creature, isn’t it? It vanishes from view, as if the world had never broken, for moments, even hours, at a time, and then pounces, more cruel than ever, when you least suspect its presence. So you live in fear of it: of its claws and its footless depths, rapier blades and tiny, tearing thorns, blankness and fury and gulping insanity.

It never leaves, exactly, although the minutes and hours without it do eventually get longer and longer until they stretch into days. But the nights are different.

Alone.

My father was long dead—an equerry found him one day flat on his face in a horse stall, apparently, cold and grey and reeking of wine and vomit. The only surprise was that he’d lived so long.

So they are all gone now—they are whispering to me from the wings.

Forgive me. The fever is in my lungs. Look at this handkerchief. Blood. Great clots of it, like liver. Like afterbirth. That’s not a good sign, is it?

Do you pity me? You should, to be honest. Do it graciously, though, I beg you. Normally I hate condescension, but I can’t help thinking that at this point a little pity wouldn’t go astray.

You could even smile. It wouldn’t kill you. Aren’t you supposed to be bringing me comfort and succour on my deathbed? Put some effort into it, man.

Don’t you understand anything? I have no soul. It fled my body, driven out by grief, and this thing—this wreck—before you is nothing at all. Dust. Ashes. Teeth. Hair. Not a woman. Not a goddess. Not a monster. Not the remarkable Chevalier de Maupin. Not even an urchin from the Marais.

Nothing.

Nothing.

There’s not much time left to us. Turn the page. Quickly.