Mistress of the Revolution (20 page)

Around four o’clock, the entire party walked towards the river. Refreshments were served under a blue-and-white-striped tent, a few dozen yards from the little pier. Lauzun, after asking my permission but without waiting for my response, sat in the chair next to mine. I could not look at him without blushing at the recollection of his letters, the tone of which was becoming more ardent by the day. He kept whispering comments to my ear, as if to establish a footing of intimacy with me before the other guests. He asked me in particular whether I did not think that Lafayette was the most conceited jackass I had ever met. I would have laughed if I had not been embarrassed by such flaunted familiarity. I coloured and looked at Villers across the table. He was watching Lauzun and me with apparent amusement.

I was not sorry to escape as soon as the meal was over.

“Would Your Grace accompany me on a walk into a little wood nearby?” I asked the Duchess as I was helping her rise from her chair.

“Thank you, dear Belle, but I feel a bit tired. I think I will go rest inside for a while with Aimée.”

“I would take it as the greatest favour if I were allowed to join you, My Lady,” Lauzun hastened to say.

I was ready to decline when Madame de Bastide interjected with a very expressive smile: “I will accompany you, dear Madam, and Monsieur de Lauzun…unless of course you do not want any third parties to interfere with your
tête-à-tête
.”

I could no longer refuse. We had gone a few hundred yards into the wilderness when Madame de Bastide put her hand to her forehead and stopped in her tracks like a startled horse. “You will have to excuse me,” she said. “A sudden migraine has come upon me.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” I responded. “Monsieur de Lauzun and I will accompany you back to the château.”

“I absolutely refuse to interrupt your walk, dear Madam. Besides, my ailment is of the kind that requires quiet and solitude. I beg you to continue without me.”

She almost ran away, leaving me at the mercy of Lauzun.

“I do not feel so well myself,” I said. “I will follow in Madame de Bastide’s footsteps.”

“You should never say that, My Lady, for you do not know where they would lead you. I do. They would not take you far from Villers’s bed, and that of many other gentlemen. And pardon me for doubting your truthfulness, but except for your heightened colour, which is extremely becoming, I fail to detect anything amiss with you. Your shyness is delightful, the most refreshing thing in this town. Indeed, you are unique among all the ladies I have known.”

Lauzun, having fallen to his knees, seized both of my hands and covered them with kisses. I looked around in alarm.

“Sir, I beg you to rise. Imagine if anyone saw us in this ridiculous position.”

He did not move. “I am not ashamed of it, Madam, nor of my feelings for you.”

I tried to draw away from him, in vain for he was holding fast to my hands. “But I am, Sir. You forget that you are a married man.”

“I confess I do, Madam, except on very rare, mournful occasions. Why do you not?”

“Because I happen to have an excellent memory. Your letters and your conduct today embarrass me more than words can express. Please, Sir, I beg you, as a favour to me, put an end to both. You are used to ladies who welcome your attentions. I cannot be one of those.” I hesitated. “I will not even conceal from you that I like you in spite of myself. You amuse me more than anyone else. After this confession, you can hardly doubt my sincerity when I tell you that you are wasting your time.”

“You have said more than enough, Madam, to give me hope. Thank you for your encouragement. I shall persevere.”

I pulled away from him and ran from the little wood with tears of vexation in my eyes.

These summer days were the longest of the year, sunny and pleasant. Ladies of fashion would ride on the Champs-Elysées in open carriages, called
landaus
, for their own enjoyment and the gawking pleasure of throngs of pedestrians. Although the Duchess had not such a carriage, we were offered seats by her daughter or other ladies and did not miss any outings on that account. We were often accompanied by various gentlemen on horseback, particularly Lauzun and Villers.

During one of these outings, I was alone with Madame de Bastide in her
landau
. Her mother was feeling tired and had remained at home with Aimée. Villers, on horseback, saw us, removed his hat and bowed. He approached the carriage. After a brief exchange of pleasantries and some enquiries into the Duchess’s condition, he rode off.

“Monsieur de Villers never fails to astonish me by the insolence of his manners,” said Madame de Bastide as soon as his back was turned.

“He seemed genuinely concerned about the Duchess.”

“He had to say something to that effect, though I am sure that he could not care less about my mother. Did you happen to notice how abruptly he escaped?”

I had indeed observed that Villers had not tarried, but had not been in the least surprised. His past intimacy with Madame de Bastide and her resentment at his desertion sufficed to explain it.

“Perhaps he had another engagement,” I said.

“No doubt. He was impatient to return to the harlots whose company he so relishes. Do you know, my dear, that he has a
petite maison
close to the Saint-Denis Gate?”

She paused. A
petite maison
, a “little house,” was a discreet establishment set up by a gentleman for his mistress or mistresses.

“There,” added Madame de Bastide, giggling, “he keeps two actresses from the
Théâtre-Français
and a singer from the Opera. Yes, my dear, he maintains a regular little harem. And, because he is as miserly as he is depraved, he shares the expenses of that establishment with the Duke d’Orléans and Monsieur de Lauzun.”

“You seem well informed of Monsieur de Villers’s private arrangements,” I said, forcing a smile.

“I cannot reveal my sources, of course, but you may trust their veracity.” She leaned towards me. “But that is not all, my dear,” she whispered. “The Duke d’Orléans, Lauzun and Villers meet there to enjoy those three ladies together. Now please picture those nice little orgies.”

I could not help wincing. Madame de Bastide put her hand on my arm. “I hope that I am not causing you pain, dear Madam. I have noticed that you seem inclined to welcome Monsieur de Villers’s attentions. I wanted, as a friend, to warn you.”

“Your concern is duly appreciated.”

I did not wish my companion to think that I had been affected by her disclosures and kept the conversation on meaningless nothings until we reached the Duchess’s mansion. Madame de Bastide declined to disturb her mother by calling on her so late. I went to my friend’s bedroom to make sure that she was comfortable and, after wishing her a good night and seeing Aimée to her bed, retired to my own apartment.

Madame de Bastide’s words had upset me. Though I supposed her to be driven by malice, nothing I knew or guessed of Villers was inconsistent with what she had told me. I went to bed in a foul mood, trying to keep my mind away from the Saint-Denis Gate. Villers must by now have reached his
little house
and be engaged in the scenes of debauchery suggested by Madame de Bastide.

Villers renewed his invitations to Vaucelles once the Duchess recovered. At first, I could not look at him without blushing and thinking of my conversation with Madame de Bastide. Yet he was as pleasant as usual and I still looked forward to our rides together. After one of those, we returned to the house and went to the library. I gave him back the books I had borrowed.

“What did you think of them, My Lady?” he asked.

“I finished
Macbeth
, which I found fascinating, and
Hamlet
, which did not make any sense to me. Maybe the translation is to blame. Most likely I am too stupid to understand either. I had not time to read the rest of the tragedies.”

He handed me back the volume. “You should keep the book longer then, and read
King Lear
, which is my favourite. And I agree, the translation is uneven. It would be far better for you to learn English.”

“How would I do that?”

“I could teach you if you would let me, but there is the small matter of Your Ladyship’s distrust of me. Or you could hire an English governess for your daughter and learn the language with her.”

“I might give the expense of a governess some consideration if Aimée were older. She is not yet two.”

“That leaves me as an instructor.” He smiled. “Not only would I charge nothing, My Lady, but I would even pay handsomely for the privilege of giving you any kind of lessons. What about
Dangerous Liaisons
? What did you think of it?”

“I am happy to return it to you. The two main characters, Valmont and Madame de Merteuil, are idle, malicious creatures, occupied only with destroying each other and a few innocents out of pure amusement. I cannot understand why the Duke d’Orléans patronizes the author. What will the other classes of society think of the nobility when they read such horrors?”

“The opinion the lower classes have of us, I am afraid, was already settled long before Laclos wrote his book. As for the Valmont character, I disagree. He lets himself be fooled into abandoning the only woman he ever loved for the sake of the bitch Merteuil and the simpleton Cécile. He is more to be pitied than loathed.”

“Do you recognize yourself in him?”

“A pointed question. I would hope to be less of an imbecile if I were placed in his situation. As to Cécile, she receives only what she deserves when she gives Valmont access to her bedroom and her person, not out of love but out of stupidity.” He put away the book and shrugged. “She is a maiden but not an innocent. Many people, especially men, tend to confuse those two notions. Not me. Virginity is worthless in my eyes, only innocence is fascinating.” Villers looked at me. “You, in your kindness and purity, remind me of Madame de Tourvel, although I suspect that you are made of sturdier material. If your heart were broken, you would bravely live on.”

“You do not know me,” I said. “And pray what do you know of purity?”

“Some people, good or evil, have transparent souls. You are one of them. Let me warn you, by the way, My Lady: it makes you the most incompetent liar I have ever met. You should never tell an untruth, because you could not fool a child. Your qualities, your feelings, your emotions can be plainly seen on your face like sunshine through a window. This is how I know that you are an innocent. I have made it a sport, I confess, to say in your presence things that I know will shock you, for the selfish pleasure of seeing you blush. And you have not once disappointed me.” He smiled. “Your repartees are fast but you never fail to colour. I must strike you as insufferable, and yet I cannot resist that temptation.”

“I thought you were naturally crude to everyone. I did not take it as a personal cruelty or compliment.”

“Of course not, because you are modest, another unusual quality. Now you are blushing again, and I have said nothing objectionable. Maybe I should stop being so uncouth after all.”

Villers’s face did not convey his usual amusement.

“Why not show yourself as you really are, Sir, no worse and no better? I would at least appreciate your candor.”

“I will try, but Your Ladyship will find that people who have lived at Court or in this city long enough have difficulty remembering who they are.”

“It might happen to me too.”

“I think not. You should be sent back to your province of Auvergne if there were any risk of it.”

I looked out the window. “It pains me to think of returning to my country.”

“So I can see. Why?”

“My soul may be transparent, but I do not wish to have my private concerns become the subject of common talk.”

“Why do you believe me indiscreet? You do me a grave injustice, My Lady. Unlike Lauzun, I do not publish things that should be kept private.”

“Does Monsieur de Lauzun speak disrespectfully of me?”

“Never, Madam. That is not what I meant. Lauzun blabbers all over town about his successes, but he does not boast of what he has not achieved. He is also patient. He can wait for months to obtain what he wants. I have noticed that you do not give him much encouragement, but it will not be enough to dissuade him from persevering. Beware, your reserve may add in his eyes to your other allurements. In the past I have often seen him more interested in the chase than in the kill.”

“And you, Sir, are you also interested in the chase?”

“I am not so refined as Lauzun and do not like wasting my time. I can be patient when the object is worth my while, but I do not bother hunting unless I expect to be successful in the end. It is not to say, of course, that I always obtain what I want.”

I tried to read
King Lear
that night, but the book kept falling off my hands. I wondered about my last conversation with Villers. He had seemed to imply that he admired me for more than my looks. Had he tried to tell me that he loved me? Was he thinking of marriage? I checked myself. Why would a man like Villers—rich, handsome, fashionable, brilliant, a man who could have any woman he wanted—consider matrimony? For the sake of a penniless, ignorant little widow fresh from her province?

The summer of 1787 passed in a most agreeable manner. I had turned eighteen in July, a fact I had not revealed to anyone but the Duchess. Lauzun’s letters continued unabated, although his professions began to betray some impatience at the slow pace of his progress. The Duchess, Aimée and I still visited Vaucelles more often than we should have, but the attractions of that little estate were difficult to resist. I rode with Villers twice a week and was invited to parties at his house and other nearby châteaux.

In Vaucelles, he showed us a little theatre, all blue and gold, within the house. I found myself on a stage for the first time in my life, an experience that, even without an audience, I found intimidating.

“Would you like me to set up a play, Madam?” asked Villers.

“Certainly, if you wish.”

“Which play would you choose?”

“It might be better, Sir, to let the actors pick what they like.”

“Do you mean, Madam, that you would not want to act?”

I laughed. “No, Sir, I would not, though I would be happy to watch the performance from the safety of the audience.”

He dropped the subject and led us back to the drawing room for tea.

“So, Belle,” said the Duchess after we returned to her mansion that night, “you did not seem very interested when Villers mentioned a play.”

“I have no objection to private theatricals, Madam, but the mediocrity of the performance does not seem to justify the expense of time and money they entail. Of course to some the pleasure of finding themselves on stage is, like virtue, its own reward.”

“True. Last week at my daughter’s house,
The Marriage of Figaro
, by Beaumarchais, was poorly acted, as should be expected from a troupe of amateurs. The performers could not remember half of their lines. And Monsieur de Brasson, who was in the audience, ran onto the stage and interrupted the representation with one of his terrible scenes. He thought that his wife smiled too much at Monsieur de Rivière, who was Figaro. She could not help it, poor thing: she played the maid Suzanne, Figaro’s fiancée.”

“I do not see, Madam, why everyone is so enamored of that play. It has been officially forbidden by the royal censors, but there does not seem to be one château in France where it has not been performed. Why would anyone support such a work? It is witty, but makes noblemen look like scoundrels. It accredits outrageous lies, such as that nonsense about the
lord’s right
to the premises of any maiden on his land. All I remember is my brother giving away the bride at many a country wedding. He did so at her father’s request. It was an honour for a peasant girl to be led to the altar by her lord. That was the extent of his prerogatives.”

“You are right,” said the Duchess. “That Beaumarchais fellow is an impertinent liar. Yet he has the support of the Queen, who was the first to defy the King’s authority and have the play performed in her own little theatre at Trianon. She even acted the part of the maid Suzanne, all for the benefit of the lackeys she invites to her private representations.” The Duchess shook her head in irritation. “She does everything in her power to discredit the monarchy. Look at what happened when her portrait by Madame Lebrun was exhibited at the Salon. I have not seen it yet, but everyone makes a mockery of her by saying that she was painted in her chemise.”

“I saw the painting in Madame Lebrun’s studio, Madam. The Queen was wearing a simple white muslin gown, not a chemise. I often dress in the same fashion myself.”

“It looks lovely on you, my dear, but it is not appropriate for a portrait of the Queen, especially one that is publicly displayed. She should uphold the dignity of the Crown and remember that she is the King’s consort, the mother of the Dauphin.”

“But the Countess de Provence was painted in the same manner.”

“This is different, Belle. The poor Countess could have herself painted in the nude without anyone taking it amiss. Since she is barren, no one questions the parentage of her offspring. Whatever scandal her infatuation with Madame de Gourbillon causes does not matter in terms of succession to the throne. She was even given a part in
The Marriage of Figaro
when it was played at Trianon by the Queen, but nobody cared.” She smiled. “As for Villers, my guess is that, if you do not show more interest in acting, he will abandon the idea of setting up any play at all.”

“Indeed, Madam,” I said, sighing, “I do not know what to think of Monsieur de Villers or his attentions.”

The Duchess became grave again. “Neither do I, my dear. Time shall tell.”

Time did tell. During a visit to Vaucelles at the beginning of September, Villers informed me that Margot had injured her hock and could not be ridden. He proposed to have another horse saddled. I declined but expressed a wish to walk to the stables to pay the little mare a visit. The Duchess and Aimée remained in the summer drawing room.

Margot nickered when she caught my smell. I stroked her face and offered her an apple. Villers proposed a walk to the river. I agreed and opened my parasol. He seemed unusually thoughtful.

“How old are you?” he asked abruptly.

Startled, I turned to look at him. “Is it not considered a rude question, Sir?”

“Not when it is asked of one so young as you. Come, Madam, tell me.”

“I turned eighteen in July.”

“And Your Ladyship did not breathe a word about it! I would have been delighted to invite you here to celebrate the occasion.”

“That may be the reason why I chose not to tell you about it.”

“Very sly of you, I dare say. You have all the wiles of a schoolgirl and deserve to be punished like one for playing such pitiful tricks. What did the nuns make you do for your penance at the convent? Did you spend dinnertime on your knees in the middle of the refectory?”

“I did, more than once, and they did not spare the rod on my fingers.” I smiled. “Yet it does not appear that
you
are in a position to punish me.”

“Oh, you may be wrong, Madam. I could embarrass you by giving a party in your honour on the holiday of the Archangel Gabriel. It is, if my memory serves me well, the 29th of this month.”

“Please, if you wish to remain my friend, do not. And I am no schoolgirl. I am a widow and a mother.”

“You must forgive my impertinence on account of my advanced years. I am old enough to consider ladies of your age as schoolgirls and, indeed, to be their father.”

I stared at him.

“Yes, it is true, Madam,” he continued, “though it is kind of you to look surprised. You were born the same year as my son.”

“I did not know you had grown children.”

“My late father made me marry at the age of eighteen. My bride was fourteen and not to my taste, but I was not given much opportunity to voice my complaints. We were introduced on the eve of our wedding. Yet I did not ignore the call of duty. Madame de Villers presented me with an heir ten months later and died in the process.”

“Where is your son?”

“I had him raised on my estate of Dampierre, in Normandy. The country is in my opinion a better place than Paris or Versailles for a child to grow up. When he reached the age of twelve, I purchased an ensign’s commission for him, as my father had done for me. He has been in the army ever since. He is a First Lieutenant in the Royal Flanders Regiment and, if I may say so, a fine fellow.”

“So you have no other children.”

“No legitimate ones. As to bastards, I do not know of any, save a pretty little daughter of fifteen. Her mother was a lady of the Court. I am not, of course, at liberty to mention her name, although you might hear it mentioned in connection with mine. I will not bore you with a full account of my adventures, but some gossip may reach you concerning this one and I would rather have you hear the story from me.”

Villers bit his upper lip. “The lady’s husband, upon learning of our liaison, requested a
lettre de cachet
, which was granted. He personally took her—she was then with child—to the convent in Lorraine where she spent the rest of her short life. I cannot fathom how a man can be so closed to all feelings of pity as to spend several days in a carriage with his young wife, knowing that she is going to be entombed alive at his behest and that he will never see her again. She must have tried all the way to beg his forgiveness, to plead for him to take her back. This is too painful to imagine, even after all these years. She died before reaching one and twenty.”

I was astonished at the turn the conversation had taken. He shook his head, lost in his thoughts. “My child is now being raised as another man’s daughter. That sad affair taught me a lesson. I have been careful not to father any more bastards. Legitimate children have also been out of the question since I am not one of the warmest advocates for matrimony. I was widowed when I was almost as young as you, Madam, and have never felt any inclination to change my situation. Wedlock is an undertaking suited only to youths who are forced into it or to fortune hunters. I am neither. I have no intention of marrying again.”

I looked at the river. The water reflected the glare of the sun. I blinked and turned away.

“Come,” he added, “reward my candor with equal sincerity. There is no point in trying to deceive me. You are, as I already told you, a poor liar. From what I saw of your late husband, he must have been a harsh master. Why, Madam, should you be so eager to place yourself under the yoke of a new one? Why give a man such near absolute power? I understand that your finances are a bit awkward, but that in itself is no reason to remarry. Would you not be a thousand times more independent, and in the eyes of reasonable people, just as respectable with a decent, discreet, generous man for your lover?”

I gasped at his insolence. “What have I done to give you the idea that I would stoop so low? Your proposals, Sir, are the grossest insult I have ever received.”

“It truly pains me to have upset you, Madam,” said Villers, “but I felt that I could not continue my attentions without making my purpose perfectly clear. I never intended to mislead you, nor do I believe that I have done so.”

I closed my parasol and stopped walking.

“I too will be candid, Sir. Though I am not surprised by what you are telling me, I am disappointed. I kept hoping for something else, although I knew that those hopes were not very reasonable. I thank you for dispelling my doubts. May we return to the house now?”

We walked back in silence. Once in the house, I barely heard a word of what was said by anyone. I could not bring myself to meet Villers’s eye during the rest of the day. I was impatient to leave and hastened our departure. During the carriage ride back to Paris, the Duchess watched me with silent concern. It was only after I put Aimée to bed that my friend asked me what was ailing me. The tears I had been holding back began to roll down my cheeks.

“Oh, Madam,” I said, “you were not mistaken. Monsieur de Villers will not marry me.”

“My poor child, I have never been so sorry to be right. Did he propose any kind of arrangement?”

“He said something about my taking a lover, and a generous one, but it does not matter. I have no intention of becoming his mistress.”

“You are not in love with him, are you?”

I was sobbing. “If I were, Madam, I would never admit it now, either to you or to myself.”

She took me in her arms. “My poor dear, do not be so unhappy. If his visits annoy you, my door will be closed to him. You should know that, as long as I live, you will have a home here. I will always be grateful for your company. Take your time, Belle. There are other men.”

“Who? The Duke de Lauzun? Worse, the Duke d’Orléans?”

“Poor Orléans! He seems to have made quite an impression on you. But you are not acquainted with everyone in Paris yet, dear, and some whom you have met have not yet had a chance to appreciate you as you deserve.”

I took the Duchess’s hand in mine. “Dear Madam, would you be angry with me if I visited my sister at Noirvaux? Now seems a perfect time to meet her at last.”

“Well, the Chevalier des Huttes could take you there.”

“I would rather not wait for his next leave of absence, Madam. Aimée and I can travel to Nantes by the stagecoach, and, if I wrote my sister to announce my visit, her carriage would take us from there to the convent.”

The Duchess frowned. “I hope, Belle, that you will not make any rash decisions in the first bitterness of your disappointment. Villers deserves no such honour.”

“Do not worry, Madam. The purpose of my journey will be to meet my sister, and also to see for myself whether convent life suits me. I promise not to make any irrevocable decisions in haste.”

I purchased two tickets to Nantes for the same night. I waited until after the servants went to bed to prepare my trunk myself lest one of my suitors, through his spies within the house, was informed of my flight. Taking in my arms Aimée, who was barely awake, I kissed the Duchess good-bye.