The French Bride (27 page)

‘I'll report you,' the governor threatened, enjoying himself thoroughly; they had been playing the same game for years. ‘You'll end up as a prisoner here yourself for this!'

‘Do what you please.' The surgeon understood the game and played it with increasing recklessness. ‘Just give me the bed and get that pesthole cleaned out. I'm going to try and save that woman's life, and keep her child. And by God, it's going to need a miracle!'

The Duc de Richelieu had arranged a firework display on the Ile Enchanté it was his personal welcome to Mme. du Barry on her return as undisputed favourite, and he estimated that the entertainment would cost him more than thirty thousand livres. But it was a small price to pay for assuring her that he was not responsible for the intrigue which had failed.

The unknown girl had left Versailles in a carriage with the blinds down, escorted by three of His Majesty's musketeers, one of whom reported that he had taken his passenger to an exclusive convent outside Lyons where the daughters of the aristocracy were educated and prepared for life in society. He also said that he had seen the lady as she alighted, and he assured his audience that she was as beautiful as an angel and appeared in the best of spirits. The King had been generous and the Du Barry was not vindictive; the abandoned bastard sold into the house on the Quai d'Orée had kept her promise to Louise; she had not remained as a prostitute for long, and she had accepted her dismissal with a meekness that delighted the King; he dreaded women who made scenes. The brief bedroom candle was put out and the royal protégée settled down happily with the excellent nuns. When she left her convent three years later, the superior had arranged a place for her in the household of a rich and pious lady at Toulouse.

Twenty years later she returned to Paris to stand trial before the Revolutionary Committee of Public Safety, as the widow of a baron and the mother of two sons who had fled to fight with Austria against the Republic that had seized control of France and put its King, Louis XVI, and his Queen, Marie Antoinette, to death. The baroness died with great dignity as befitted an aristocrat of her station, unlike the terrified woman, shrieking for mercy, who was dragged out to perish on the guillotine for the crime of being the Comtesse du Barry, only forty-eight hours before.

But there were no shadows over Versailles that night; the Grand Canal was thronged with boats, the magnificent royal barge was illuminated like a fairy ship with lights in coloured lanterns and the King sat under the awning on the poop deck, with the Du Barry beside him, glittering in turquoise and silver lace, and in radiant spirits. She adored a firework display; at some of the grander set pieces she clapped her hands and laughed like a child. The King patted her hand and smiled contentedly. His conscience was at peace; there was no conflict to disturb him, and he felt he was fortunate indeed to possess the memory of his delicious little companion of the past weeks and to have exchanged her without fuss for the indispensable, enchanting Bacchante at his side.

A large diamond necklace glittered round her exquisite throat; when he remarked on it, she giggled mischievously. The fireworks from Richelieu, the diamonds from the chancellor, De Maupeou.… What gift did he intend to give her, to make amends for having strayed? The gift was in his cabinet at the palace, a diamond as large as a pigeon's egg, with the delicate shade of a budding pink rose. There was not another like it in the world.

He only smiled and whispered that she would have to wait and see; it might be that he had thought of something.…

Louise and the Comte de Tallieu were seated side by side in one of the barges, watching the fizzing, glittering display shoot up like exploding stars into the cloudless evening sky. At each cascade there was a murmur and a hiss of wonder and excitement from the crowds upon the water and lining the canal banks. Rockets soared upwards and flashed out into a spray of multicoloured, blazing lights; enormous set pieces whirled and sparkled on their frames, and the smell of the powder drifted across the water. The scene was as light as if it were day.

‘How much longer is this going on?' Louise whispered. She was cramped from sitting on the narrow bench; by the leaping light of the fireworks her lovely face was pinched and hard. She had not seen Charles since the morning he left her room, saying he would not return. She had not seen him and her desperate letters were unanswered. She did not sleep and she ate hardly anything, but she did not believe, because she could not, that he had really left her.

‘Not much longer,' the comte murmured. ‘Why aren't you enjoying it, my dear? It's very pretty!'

‘You're not enjoying it either,' she retorted. ‘You're on edge. What's wrong with you tonight?'

‘Travelling makes me nervous,' he said under his breath. ‘And I can see the time has come for me to travel. I'm going to pay a visit to my estates … I've neglected them too long.'

‘You're running away!' She turned to him fiercely. ‘Your part of the plot failed and now you're running off. What for? Does anyone suspect you? Tell me, for God's sake, you're not alone in it, you know!'

‘I know,' he whispered. ‘Stop pinching my arm, you fool, people will notice.'

‘They might think you've changed your ways and gone to bed with me instead of those revolting boys,' she flashed at him maliciously. The dark eyes glared murderously at her and she could have sworn that under the rouge he actually turned red.

‘Be careful,' he said softly. ‘Sweeten that bitter tongue or keep it still, unless you want me to start wagging mine a little.…'

‘You daren't,' she said. ‘We both know that. We're in each other's power, so don't let's quarrel. I'm overwrought these days; I apologise. Why are you leaving Versailles?'

‘Because the word is that D'Aiguillon is taking a hand in the matter now; he's curious to know the means by which our little protégée was introduced. He's had the worst fright of his life and so has the Du Barry. They're not going to let it rest at getting rid of the girl. Once questions are asked, and they're bound to start with De Verier, it's safer to be out of the way. I'm not afraid, my dear; don't think that. You and I were small fish indeed in this particular pond. Much smaller than I ever let you know. Some of the greatest names in France involved themselves with His Majesty's sleeping habits, and we very nearly won. I don't think D'Aiguillon will discover anything; De Verier will keep quiet. The girl gave nothing away – she was clever, incidentally – angel face and innocent eyes.… she kept that horrible old satyr on a string for weeks and got herself a pension and an honourable discharge.…' For a moment he giggled, but the darting eyes were anxious and the malicious smile vanished a second later.

‘I'm going because I think that when they start upturning stones, it's wise not to be found hiding under one of them. If you take my advice, my dear, you'll plead sickness and do the same. A month or two in the country; it may nearly kill us, but it'll be healthier than the Du Barry's vengeance if she finds out what we did!'

‘I can't leave now,' Louise retorted. ‘Do you think I took that risk just to go off to the country as soon as Charles came back?'

‘He isn't finished with you then?' the comte said softly. ‘The rumours have been going round, you know.…'

‘We've had a quarrel,' she answered. ‘We've had them before, it's nothing. He'll come back to me, he always does. Anyway, I wouldn't dream of leaving unless I can persuade him to come with me.'

‘That's unlikely; I heard he was very occupied at the Ministry. Curious how he's changed since he came back from Scotland. They tell me he's working quite hard now. He's anxious to go away again.'

A brilliant fan-shaped exhibit flared on the bank of the île, shooting cascades of golden stars from its crimson perimeter, and there was a murmur of admiration and delight from all around them.

‘That loutish Vicomte de Renouille is a friend of his, isn't he?' the comte went on.

Louise nodded, watching the fireworks. Letters were useless; she would have to dispense with the last of her pride and go to him herself and get him back. The decision gave her the first feeling of happiness she had experienced for weeks.

‘
He
said to somebody the other day'– De Tallieu's voice was silky in her ear –‘that Charles was planning a trip to Metz. Sh! – my dear, control yourself!' He laid his finger to his lips and after a moment Louise turned back in her seat; her fan snapped in her hands with a sound that made De Tallieu jump, as if she had fired a tiny gun.

‘I don't believe it,' the words came out unevenly; he thought that she looked quite wild. ‘He's not going to look for her. You're just saying that to torture me.' He smiled and shook his head. He had paid back that jibe about the page boys; he always paid his debts.

‘He's going to kill the Irishman – that's all De Renouille said. I think it's true; it's in character. If I were you, Louise, my friend, I'd take a trip to the country.…'

‘He'll never find out,' Louise said. ‘He'll never find out where she is or what happened to her.'

‘No,' the comte agreed. ‘That's one certainty. No one mentions a
lettre de cachet.
She is gone forever.'

‘Four months in that place'– Louise was almost speaking to herself –‘and carrying a child … for all we know, she's probably dead.'

‘Quite probably,' De Tallieu said. He leant back and applauded; the display was over, and as soon as the royal barge left its moorings, the whole fleet would begin sailing back behind it to Versailles.

At the end of the journey the crowd disembarked, slowly and awkwardly, the women almost losing balance in their heavy court dresses as they stepped ashore where their carriages were waiting. It would take nearly half an hour to reach Versailles from the point where the barges were moored. In the middle of the surging crowd, noisy and assertive in its race to get to the coaches and back to the palace, the comte turned to Louise, and made her a low, if slightly mocking, bow.

‘This is as good a time as any to say farewell,' he said. ‘I am leaving tomorrow – my estates can't wait another day without me. I'm sorry I can't persuade you to do likewise.'

‘I'm staying here,' she said. ‘Where Charles is; he won't go to Metz – I'll see to that. Goodbye, my dear comte. Shall I write and tell you what is happening here?'

‘Er – I think not,' he smiled. ‘You'd only make me pine, and that would never do. I give myself a month or more … until then, most charming lady,
au revoir.
Meeting you,' he murmured, ‘has been an
unforgettable
experience.'

The next morning he had left Versailles. The same evening the Duc d'Aiguillon consulted a list his secretary had prepared for him during the past week. There were several names on it; the last and least illustrious was that of the Comte de Tallieu.

‘Another rat is deserting, is he? – and a particularly nasty rat. We'll keep a note of you, my dear comte. Normally, wild horses wouldn't tear you from Versailles. You've had a hand in this affair.…'

CHAPTER EIGHT

The wife of the surgeon at the Bastille was called Marguerite; it was a name that did not suit her, denoting as it did, a bright and dainty flower, whereas from childhood Madame had been plump and mousy, with a placid nature and a kindly unimaginative soul. Only such a woman with such a temperament could have survived living in the fortress with her husband, as shut off from the diversions of the civilised world as if she herself were a prisoner. She had no children and the frustration had dried her into middle age while she was still in her thirties. Now, her nondescript hair was very grey and the round pleasing face was lined and colourless; she looked more tired than usual because she had been nursing the woman who was dying in the West Tower for two days and nights without sleep or rest.

The girl was sleeping now, almost lost beneath the blankets Marguerite's husband had provided for her, and laid to rest in a clean plank bed that was raised up from the straw that harboured fleas and dirt. While the fever burnt away her life, the six-month foetus stayed intact and visibly alive; placing her hand upon the swollen body, Mme. Marguerite marvelled at the resistance of nature. Not till the mother died would that separate soul give up its tenure; she shook her head and covered the girl up, and yawned.

It would not be long, her husband had said; she would be gone by morning. Poor thing! Marguerite's motherly heart was touched by the youth and the helplessness of the sleeping girl; you could see the ruins of great beauty in the sallow face. In the worst extremities of that particularly revolting illness, she had remembered to thank her nurse and murmur apologies for the trouble she was causing. Many times during the long vigil, the older woman had wondered how her patient came to be in the Bastille, what frightful vengeance had pursued her and her helpless unborn child and sentenced them to such a fate. She was no criminal; nor would her infant be a bastard. The ravings of delirium told Marguerite a great deal about the dying girl; the pain and the reproaches flowed out of her at this unknown Charles, this inhuman monster about whom her own husband said the girl had named as responsible for her arrest. She stirred and the tired eyes opened; for the first time the expression in them was quite lucid. It was often so when the end was near. Marguerite was glad; there was something she wanted to ask the girl before she died; it had troubled her conscience. When they had changed the ragged dress for a clean nightgown from her own wardrobe, she had felt something in the neck; she had the little sapphire pin which had been hidden there in her right-hand pocket now. She leant forward and smiled at Anne. ‘Would you like a drink of water?'

‘No.'