Dark Angels (16 page)

K
ING
L
OUIS MADE
up for his brother’s rudeness. He took the princess for a walk in the enormous terraced gardens, the whole court flocking behind them at a respectful distance. There was a dinner that evening held in her honor, afterward fireworks in the vast gardens. Alice watched as courtiers fell over themselves to press forward to have a word with the princess. King Louis’s regard for her was clear. If there was a contest with her husband for the king’s affection, at the moment she had the lead.

But Monsieur had the last laugh. The court was leaving the next day for Versailles, the old château the king was redoing. There were further fetes, further pleasures awaiting there, and Princesse Henriette, rouged, jeweled, gowned to perfection, petted, admired, sought after, left the fireworks in her honor still fading in the sky to walk to her chambers and find her household packing, but not for Versailles. The only taste of celebration she’d enjoy had passed.

“We go to Saint Cloud, Highness,” said her lady-in-waiting, not daring to raise her eyes to the princess’s face. Saint Cloud was a summer palace just outside of Paris. The entire court, the world, might go to Versailles, but they weren’t joining them.

“It’s an insult, a way to thwart her. You see the honor she was given. There was to be more. We’d have been days celebrating at Versailles. I hear there was a ballet planned and a mock battle on the long canal. She’s one of the lights of this court.” Alice tried to explain to Richard when they stopped on their journey to allow the dogs to run in the grass. “She sets the fashion; the king has always depended on her to add style and verve to his court. It’s been that way since she married. Monsieur used to be proud of her. Now he hates any notice she receives. This is cruel to her, not to be allowed a place by the king’s side. We spent all the winter away from court; she hated it.” Alice shuddered, thinking about marriage and all it could entail. “To be at the beck and call of a fool or a madman or someone cruel…I’d leap out a window first.”

“Or he would.”

Alice laughed, saw Beuvron standing alone near one of the carriages. They’d scarcely spoken a word since he’d been sent to the ships in Dover. That disgrace had not yet been dropped into this latest quarrel, but Alice knew the princess well enough to know she’d bring it up at the proper moment, when she needed something to goad her husband with, and then woe to everyone. “Hello, old friend,” she said to him. To her surprise, he stepped away as if there were something offensive about her. “Beuvron?”

“I am aware I owe you money. You’ll be repaid.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“Keep away from me, Alice.” To her hurt and amazement, he walked away, but took only a few steps before returning, seizing her hand, kissing it, saying quickly, as if he said them fast enough the words would disappear and absolve him, “You’ve always been a good friend to me. There’s a line in the sand now, Alice, and you’re on one side, and I’m on the other.”

She watched him join d’Effiat and those crowded around Monsieur, talking, laughing, jesting, all their attention on him, on keeping him amused—the litany of the household was “Monsieur must be amused.” Like slender, slightly tamed tigers, they all vied for his attention, particularly now, when he was in a bad mood. In among them, aloof and watching, Henri Ange saw her. He tilted his head and stared, but Alice lifted her chin and returned to the carriage.

W
HEN THEY ARRIVED
at Saint Cloud, the mood changed like clouds moving to show sun. Monsieur and his gentlemen melted in one direction and Madame and her ladies in the other, and there were enough calming, charming, gracious places to hold both. Paris was within easy distance. Monsieur loved Paris, and Princesse Henriette loved this house. Splendid and multiwinged, the house was on the highest point of land at a bend of the Seine River, and its gardens ran downward to the water. To make the setting perfect was one of Monsieur’s amusements, and there were vast acres of trees, planted in precise rows called alleys, which led to a vista of the river or a shady arbor in which to rest or dine or talk, and parterres, which were flower beds outlined with rigidly pruned shrubs, everywhere. Inside the parterres grew pinks, hyacinths, citron, myrtle, jasmine, the fragrance as strong as perfume. Water was part of the beauty, not only the ribbon of the river, but water displayed in fountains, in reflecting pools, in jets, which, when turned on, created fantastic sprays leaping into the air.

Alice and Barbara walked the gardens. “Have you ever seen anything more beautiful? I do love it here,” said Alice.

They were at the cascade, a staircase of water spilling down a hill in froth and spray to end in the sudden quiet of a long reflection pool. It could be heard before it was seen, the sound of the rushing water beckoning and inviting. To stand anywhere near it was to be cooled, as if a breeze had come in directly off the river. When Barbara could move her eyes from the beauty of the cascade, she saw that simple marble benches were placed around the reflection pool, and a swan, its long neck arching, swam in solitary splendor at one end, away from the spray and sound. The household had already scattered, leaving the majordomo and servants to unpack and settle, and two ladies-in-waiting sat on one of the benches, their fans fluttering as they talked, almost as if the women were posed to grace the scene: the sweep of soft feathers in their hair, the sheen of fashionable, fat pearls at their throat and ears, the glimpse of soft shoes that matched some shade in their gowns, the gowns embroidered and tiny-buttoned and gleaming with a combination of fabrics that were lustrous even from a distance. Several of the princess’s spaniels lay at their feet, their paws crossed, as if barking at swans were something they never thought to do. Coming to Saint Cloud was like walking into the pages of a fabulously painted book, where nothing was not perfect.

The quarreling seemed to melt away under the charm of the house, of the month of June, when days were warm, nights cool, and roses fragrant. Monsieur spent much of his time in Paris. Princesse Henriette and the children and her ladies spent their time in the gardens, picnicking, playing cards—gambling was the vice of court—and receiving visitors. The world of Paris came to call, as did the English ambassador.

Richard announced he would conduct English lessons in the gardens, and anyone might come. All the women were his pupils. He explored the house, he visited with the captain of the household guard, he watched the group of young men who were devoted to Monsieur, their preening, their purring, their disturbing tension. Through Renée, he learned of the odd comment made to Alice by the one called Beuvron. It stayed on his mind. They left him alone, except for Henri Ange.

Richard was on the quay, fishing. He cast back his line, and it caught. He turned, and there was Henri Ange. “My God, I didn’t hook you, did I?”

Henri walked forward, held out his arm. The hook was fastened into the sleeve of his jacket. Richard stepped forward, began to undo it, apologizing.

“Someone else was a fisher of men,” said Ange.

“I’m hardly that. Merely clumsy. I didn’t know anyone was behind me. There, I’ve done no harm to your jacket.”

“You like to fish?”

“I do. I grew up fishing a creek near my home.”

“You speak beautiful French.”

Richard bowed.

“May I sit here awhile?”

Richard cast his line out into the river. “You’re from Italy, I’m told.”

“Who told you that?”

Richard was silent, his mind moving quickly. The undercurrents in this household were treacherous. He didn’t wish to make trouble for Alice or Beuvron. He shrugged.

“Does my accent betray me?” Ange prodded.

“On the contrary. You sound a Frenchman.”

“Tell me of England. I’ve been thinking of visiting it.”

And so Richard talked, noticing that every question he asked was not answered, or it was deflected away. Alice did not like this man, but to Richard he seemed harmless enough. After a time, Ange stood, bowed, and left. But he joined Richard the next day as he walked along the river, and the day after that.

“You’ve made a friend,” Alice said when she saw them talking on the third day. “I can’t say I approve your choice.”

“I can’t say I asked you to do so.”

Richard was thinking of that as he put his hands to the ropes of the swing and pushed Renée out and up. She laughed, and the swing returned, and he put his hands to her waist, to the place where the gown swelled out, thinking how someday she would be in their marriage bed and he would painstakingly untie and unbutton all the pieces of material that covered her and taste every inch of flesh he saw. Alice and Barbara and the little girls were picking flowers in the distance. Princesse Henriette sat in a chair on the lawn, talking with a favorite friend in from Paris. There was a breeze off the river. The day was perfect, and I, thought Richard, could be quickly bored with this idyll. There had been much to write to the king about the household, the quarreling, the odd atmosphere, but now, in a space of days—it had been a week since they’d left Saint Germain—there was nothing.

I
N THE HOUSE,
in one of the many chambers, d’Effiat panted and groaned and cried out, putting his hands in the thick dark hair of the man who knelt in front of him. Then it was here, the mountain to which all men journeyed, the peak high, wide, hot, and he moaned and staggered back and sat in a chair, shivering, watching as Henri Ange, who never allowed embrace, rose to his feet, went to a mirror, and shook his head so that his hair fell in handsome darkness all around his face. Ange went to stand outside on a narrow balcony. Before him was the view of the gardens, the princess, and her guest; farther on, he saw Lieutenant Saylor pushing Renée de Keroualle in a swing that hung from a magnificent and ancient tree. D’Effiat joined him, put his hand to the man’s shoulder, but Ange shook it off.

“He’s made himself quite the pet,” said d’Effiat.

“It’s an intelligent move, to make himself comfortable among the ladies. Women talk too much, and if he were of a mind to seduce, he could have his choice already. Women tell everything once you’ve bedded them.”

“He’s a spy.”

“Yes.”

“I think it should be ended now.”

“Are you certain?”

“Finish it.”

C
HAPTER 8

T
he next day, hidden from view behind a table used for dining, Richard flipped playing cards into a porcelain foo dog’s open mouth. Monsieur collected porcelain. Monsieur collected everything. As far as the eye could see there were paintings, gold and silver plate, candlesticks, ewers, statues, objets d’art made by the artisans housed in the Louvre Palace in Paris. It was late afternoon, and the royal couple were entertaining, except that Princesse Henriette had fallen asleep among cushions on the floor.

“I don’t think she looks at all well,” Richard heard their guest say.

He stood and watched Monsieur—elegant in a satin coat, calm in manner, charming for the guests’ sake—walk over to his sleeping wife and stare down at her. She woke, and for a moment their eyes met.

“You’re quite right.” Monsieur smiled, the smile as handsome as that of a Greek statue and as cold. “She looks terrible.”

Princesse Henriette sat up, touched her face with her hands, a sleepy, bewildered expression still on her face.