“I do,” she said, examining the various studies in pen and ink.
“The man is an excellent artist, but addicted to the grape,” Victor confided. “If he returns to our part of the country this year, I shall commission him to do portraits of Lucinda and me.”
“And keep him away from spirits while he is working,” Enid advised with a smile as she returned the sketches to him.
Lucinda came into the room and joined them. “Have you and Armand run out of conversation yet?” she asked Enid.
Enid laughed. “I doubt that we ever shall. I find him most interesting.”
Armand demurred. “It is Lady Enid who is the brilliant one when it comes to words. I have seldom met so sharp-witted a woman.”
“And you are truly a judge of that,” Lucinda teased.
The duke snorted. “That is a compliment for him and a warning for you, Lady Enid. Your husband might not remain in Paris if he knew who your companion was here in the country.”
“I do not think my husband is given to such worries about me,” Enid said.
“I’m sure you’ve offered him no cause,” d’Orsay was quick to interject. “And I must also add that Armand’s conquests have been given too much weight.”
“Thank you,” the handsome count said. “I think I have already explained that to Lady Enid’s satisfaction.” He glanced at Enid as if for confirmation, and she gave him a warm look.
Lucinda moved toward the gilt-edged ebony card table near the fireplace. “In that case, let us sit down and play a game of cards. Armand and Enid can be partners.”
Several days later the duke announced that they had all been invited to Versailles to attend a performance of Molière’s
Tartuffe.
Enid was thrilled by the news, as was everyone else. D’Orsay’s contact at the palace had not let him down.
Meanwhile, Enid and Armand had become close friends. They had exchanged their ideas about philosophy, history and the arts, and had gone for long walks on the grounds of the estate. The more she learned about him, the more she liked him. Though Armand was a man of title and wealth, he was sincerely concerned about the common people, and this quality endeared him to Enid.
She told Lucinda, “If your husband and Armand are good examples of the French nobility, I must regard that group as a very special one.”
“They are among the best,” her friend agreed, “but believe me they are in the minority. Do not forget your Vicomte Robert in Paris. There are many others like him, some even worse. The nobility is not noted for having a high moral consciousness, I assure you.”
The afternoon on which they were to attend the play arrived, and the duke arranged for their departure in a large open carriage. Everyone was in a relaxed, jolly mood, and for a little while Enid forgot Paris and the travesty that was her marriage.
Along the way the two men debated the merits of Molière’s plays. “My favorite is
The Imaginary Invalid,”
the duke insisted. “I cannot forget the line ‘Nearly all men die of their remedies, and not of their illnesses.’ I consider it a classic!”
Armand laughed along with the others and said, “We mustn’t forget
The Misanthrope,
or this saying from it: ‘The more we love our friends, the less we flatter them. It is by excusing nothing that pure love shows itself.’ There is much truth in that.”
Enid spoke up. “Don’t underestimate today’s play. I have seen it done in an English translation and I think it’s a fine comedy.”
“The clergy still doesn’t like it too well,” Lucinda remarked. “The study of the mock pious priest is very damaging.”
“I understand it’s the king’s favorite play,” Victor offered with a chuckle.
As they rolled through the countryside on this pleasant May afternoon, they made an attractive foursome. Enid had borrowed a dark pink silk dress with lace trim from Lucinda, who looked lovely in a crimson silk gown embroidered in gold. Armand and Victor were garbed, respectively, in blue and green jackets and matching breeches.
The guards at the main palace gate challenged them, then let them pass when the duke presented a written note from his friend. Enid’s heart began to beat faster as the group left the carriage and Armand escorted her inside. They made their way along a broad corridor, at the end of which an elderly servant greeted them and said, “To the left for the play, your lordship.”
Armand thanked him, and they proceeded to the entrance of the small but magnificent theater. The oval-shaped room was already nearly filled with people both seated and standing. Enid thought the profusion before her of gilt, marble, sky-blue velvet, and fine chandeliers the most breathtaking display of opulence she had thus far seen.
“This is called the Royal Opera,” Armand said in a low voice.
The duke and Lucinda had come up beside them. Victor murmured, “Down front and center. The king and queen are in the large chairs. They use their royal box only in the evenings.”
Enid stood on tiptoe and caught a brief glimpse of a rather stout, good-looking man, in a white jacket rich with decorations and embroidery, and a pleasant-looking woman with light brown hair, wearing a dress of royal purple, cut very low. The two were smiling and exchanging small talk with people who were clearly ladies and gentlemen of the court.
“I fear we shall have to stand in order to have any view of the stage,” the duke whispered.
“I do not mind,” Enid whispered back.
Lucinda smiled and nodded her agreement. Armand stationed himself just inside the doorway, and Enid and the d’Orsays stood beside him. The play began and a hush fell over the audience. Once the comedy was under way, there was almost continuous merriment from the assembly. The actor playing the priest gave a convincing caricature of all the hypocrites of the world. Enid thought he was excellent.
The other members of the cast were equally talented. The famous lines came brilliantly, especially “Those whose conduct gives room for attack are always the first to attack their neighbors,” “She is laughing in her sleeve at you,” and “The beautiful eyes of my cash-box!” It was an unparalleled treat, and Enid had no awareness of the passage of time. Even with her limited French, her knowledge of the play allowed her to enjoy it thoroughly.
At the play’s end the actors came forth to take their bows. There was generous applause, and a loud comment of praise from King Louis. Then the audience stood politely to one side to allow the monarch and his wife to exit from the theater. The royal couple passed so close to Enid that, had she wished to, she could have touched the king’s sleeve.
Louis was a man of medium height and had the prominent Bourbon nose. Marie Antoinette was regal and tiny, very much a Hapsburg. As Louis walked by Enid he deigned to offer her the slightest of friendly smiles.
After the royal group had moved away, Lucinda could not contain her excitement. “I saw it, Enid!” she cried. “I could hardly believe it! He actually smiled at you!”
Her husband laughed. “The king has an eye for pretty faces.”
Armand agreed. “And in Lady Enid he most assuredly saw one.”
Enid blushed. “You make too much of it. He was merely being polite to us onlookers.” But she was secretly delighted and knew this was a moment she would long remember.
Lucinda sighed. “At least he’s much more attractive than that addled German we have on the throne in England.”
“You must not say spiteful things about King George,” the duke admonished her. “It is not becoming in a wife of mine.”
“He helped England lose the Colonies,” Lucinda reminded her husband. “Many cannot forgive him for that.”
Enid gave Armand a knowing glance. “Taxes again, I fear!”
They left Versailles and headed back to the estate in a happy frame of mind. Armand was in excellent form and regaled Enid with tales of the history of the palace and how it had come to be built. She listened avidly, interjecting some thoughts of her own, and in a short time they were back at the chateau.
When she came down for dinner a little later, she found Lucinda waiting for her in the reception hall. By the look on her friend’s face, Enid knew that she bore unpleasant news.
“A letter arrived from Paris while we were out,” Lucinda said. “It is addressed to you—and sent by your husband.”
Enid took the envelope from her. “I knew it would be coming soon.” She quickly scanned the short note. Then, with a look of sadness, she told her friend, “I fear I must leave tomorrow. Andrew requests that I depart in the morning so we can proceed to England the next morning.”
“I don’t want you to go—it’s much too soon!”
“Not really.” Enid folded the note and put it back in the envelope. “Our honeymoon wasn’t meant to last more than a week or so, anyway.”
“Honeymoon!” Lucinda exclaimed scornfully. “How can you dare to call it that?”
Enid shrugged. “That is what I must pretend it has been.”
“I think it’s unfair, terribly unfair, and I fear we may never meet again!” Luanda’s voice shook with the weight of her emotions.
“But of course we shall,” Enid insisted, then placed an arm around her good friend. “I’ll plan to visit you regularly.”
Lucinda brightened at once. “Do you mean that?”
“Certainly. I’m sure that once we get back to England, I’ll be able to make definite arrangements with Andrew and will be free to travel about from time to time. He’ll be glad to have me out of the way as much as possible.”
“But how can you accept such a future?” Lucinda demanded.
“I can because I must,” Enid said firmly. “Now, let’s not mention my departure until after dinner. I don’t want to spoil everyone else’s good mood.”
“Whatever you say,” Lucinda agreed.
Dinner was a most pleasant affair of duck à l’orange and a casserole of spring vegetables in a cream sauce. Afterward they moved to the drawing room; the men had cognac, the women port. Then Lucinda complained of weariness, and she and the duke retired early. Enid realized her friend had acted discreetly in order to leave her alone with Armand on her last night at the chateau.
After a moment or two of silence Armand said, “The shadow has fallen once again. I noticed it during dinner.”
Enid smiled wryly. “I can have no secrets from you, it seems.”
“What is wrong?”
“I must leave in the morning. My husband wishes me to join him so that we can return to England the following morning.”
“Are you going?”
“Yes.”
Armand searched her face intently, his black eyes very serious. “You once told me you did not love him—that you planned to separate from him.”
“That is impossible for the present.”
His eyes met hers and held them. “You have a good reason to leave him.”
Startled, she asked, “How do you know?”
“You told me he is staying at the house of Vicomte Claude Robert. All Paris knows him to be a pederast. The facts speak for themselves.”
She lowered her gaze and murmured, “I suppose they do.”
“It is a tragic thing for a woman to be wasted in this way.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“And so beautiful a woman, too,” Armand added in the same grave tone. He paused a moment, then said, “There is a moon tonight. Why don’t we go outside and observe it?”
She allowed him to take her hand and lead her out the doors at one end of the room that gave access to the garden. The air was fragrant with the scent of roses and the moon was bright and full. Its silver magic gave the garden an other-world quality.
Armand took her by the arm and turned her toward him. At the burning look in his eyes Enid felt a wild current course through her body. Then he began to speak. “I have no right to say what is in my heart. My country is on the brink of great danger and I live constantly under the threat of violent death. But, heaven forgive me, I have fallen in love with you and can no longer remain silent.”
She smiled through sudden tears. “I wanted to hear you say just that.”
“It is madness for us to fall in love!”
She laughed softly. “That is the marvelous thing about love. There is no logic to it.”
“My little English philosopher.” His voice had grown husky. “I can only pray your wit and courage will protect you until I can properly claim you for my own!”
“I hope so, too, but I am afraid that we will never see each other again.”
He drew her closer to him.
“Nevertheless, I shall always love you, deep in my heart,” she vowed.
“And I you,” he whispered, crushing her to him in a fierce embrace and searing her lips with ardent kisses. His tongue sought hers, delicately at first, then with insistence, while his fingers gently explored the soft flesh of her bosom swelling above her low-cut gown.
Enid responded to his caresses with an abandon uncharacteristic of one so inexperienced in the art of love. But Armand’s deft touch had aroused her dormant passions into full flower. As she felt her gown slip off her shoulders and drop to her feet, she trembled with eager anticipation. A moment later he had cast aside his own clothing and lowered her to the bed of grass.
She clung to him, delighting in the feel of his well-muscled body atop hers. He brought his lips to her breasts and nibbled at their taut rose peaks, then lowered his head to her smooth stomach. She heard herself moan in a frenzy of joy and agony. Then, just as she thought the universe would explode into myriad silver particles of moonlight, he entered her moist flesh and began a series of slow, unbearably sweet thrusts that gradually elevated her to a rarefied atmosphere.
Eons later, after reaching the zenith of their desires in a final rapturous outpouring of love, they lay spent and happy in each other’s arms.
On the drive back to Paris, Enid thought about her change of attitude since the rainy night she had traveled to Versailles. Now she had Armand Beaufaire and his declared love to console her. She was still tingling from their night of passion. She had never met anyone who had appealed to her so strongly, and she knew she would never forget him.
She also knew she had to be sensible. The chances of her meeting Armand again were slim, despite her promises to Lucinda to return to Versailles. Because of the impending revolution, travel might come to a halt at any time. To add to the hazards, Armand was working actively for the Royalist cause as an agent against the revolutionists. In this role he was constantly under threat of death.