The French Bride (12 page)

She could see nothing in his face; it was quite cool and expressionless as he looked down at her.

‘Yes, I would be glad to.' She had completely forgotten that Francis O'Neil was waiting for her in the Salon d'Appollon. He had not been asked to the Trianon, and after that week he had told her he would be forced to leave Versailles as his money was finished and he was no further advanced in his search for a commission than the day he arrived there. Only as they passed into the supper room did Anne remember and she saw him standing in the distance, looking for her. He was her constant companion now; her shield against the attentions of the men who knew she was to all intents alone, her companion, her provider, her hunting partner. They had grown very intimate in those long days and she knew all about him, from the bleak childhood in Rome with the exiled Stuarts, to the dirt and privations suffered by the mercenary soldier. Not a word of impropriety had passed between them; he had never done more than kiss her hand, and yet she sensed that there was something more.

‘Oh, Charles, I forgot; there's poor Captain O'Neil. I promised to have supper with him and we thought perhaps the King might speak to me and I could present him … can't we ask him to join us? Please?'

Charles looked across at the man standing half turned away from them, searching among the crowd streaming in; one of the Irish mercenaries, no doubt, hanging about in a pathetic search for favour from a singularly ungenerous King. He saw the handsome face at that moment, and the fine breeding in the features, and turning to Anne, he said coldly: ‘No, my dear. You may pick up with what rag tags you choose when I'm not with you, but I don't care to eat with money soldiers. He must find someone else to sponsor him tonight.'

They supped in the long room, where Francis had sat with her the night they first met, and in spite of herself she felt happy; the moment of coolness was gone; she could force herself to forget the unkindness in that refusal; instead, she held on to the previous time they spent together, and her heart ached and yearned for this to be the normal way of life between them. Perhaps she bored him still; it was so difficult to tell, that thin dark face was such an impossible page to read except when it was full of mockery and illumined by his savage temper. The eyes which considered her said nothing either, occasionally they grew light as he smiled, but it was not a change she trusted. And yet he was all she wanted, even the uncertainty and fear of being with him was more than the tenderest attentions from any other man.

When the supper was over, there was dancing in the Salon d'Appollon and the King made an appearance with the Du Barry, whose little doll's face was flushed with wine and her voice a tone above its usual pitch. When she was bored or unhappy she drank, and she had been both that evening. She was ready to burst into tears and shout a stream of fishwife language at the smirking courtiers who had witnessed yet another snub delivered by Marie Antoinette that night. For a moment Anne thought again of Francis O'Neil, but though she looked among the crowd, she could not see him, and again the King passed quickly through the company and spoke to hardly anyone. When he left, Charles turned to Anne.

‘It grows late, and I grow weary,' he said. ‘It was an interminable play, intolerably acted. I pray to God we shan't have to sit through another for a very long time.'

‘I enjoyed it,' Anne said unsteadily. ‘I wasn't bored at all.' For a moment the pale eyes gleamed at her, with laughter, with contempt – it was impossible to tell. He lifted her hand and kissed it. ‘As I said, there's much of the country about you still. Good night, madame.'

She made her way out of the stuffy room and when she came to the corridors beyond the Galérie des Glaces, Anne began to run, and as she ran, the tears were flowing down her face. At the doorway to her rooms, she paused; in all her life she had never so far forgotten herself as to cry before a servant; none but her old nurse had ever seen her weep. With an effort she composed herself and opened the door. The maid, Marie-Jeanne, was dozing on her stool; she sprang up, blushing and stammering at being caught asleep.

‘Undress me quickly,' Anne said. She felt intolerably tired. Her legs ached from standing and she now felt the full weight of her heavy dress. The dress, the petticoats, the corselet, the panniers, at last they were laid aside and a lawn nightgown, warmed by the fire, was slipped over her head. The jewels and false-hair pieces were taken off and Marie-Jeanne brushed her long hair as she had done since her mistress was a child.

The bed was warmed by a pan filled with hot coals; there was a hot brick wrapped in flannel at the bottom for her feet. Anne lay back and closed her eyes while the maid drew the covers up and tucked them in. Then she curtsied.

‘Good night, madame.'

‘Good night, Marie-Jeanne. Blow out the bedside candle.' She fell asleep immediately; not long afterwards, she woke with a sensation of someone touching her, and found that it was not a dream. She tried to sit up with a cry of fear, and Charles's voice said out of the darkness: ‘Lie still! Who did you think it was – your Irish money soldier …?'

CHAPTER FOUR

The Hôtel de Bernard had been closed for many years; after the old marquise's death, the great Paris house had been shut up, its furniture shrouded in sheets, its treasures packed away, and Anne had never intended opening it again. Now it was full of servants cleaning and polishing and re-laying the Aubusson carpets and hanging the priceless tapestries. Gold and silver plate, superb porcelain, and some of the loveliest furniture – made by cabinetmakers to the King at the beginning of the reign – were arranged in the reception rooms. Anne had engaged a steward to supervise the large staff of servants and he had secured one of the best chefs in the city. Horses were brought up from Charantaise for her stables, and she had ordered a magnificent new town coach with special springing to withstand the abominable cobbled streets of Paris. Versailles was full of rumour and speculation about the ball that Anne was giving to celebrate the opening of her hôtel; it was predicted that the King himself would honour the occasion and there was much jealousy and angling for invitations.

The appointment of Captain O'Neil as her agent, added a delicious spice of scandal to the whole affair, and some of the more malicious, including the Comte de Tallieu who was revelling in the gossip, insisted the Mme. Macdonald shared her favours between the handsome captain and his hideous, one-eyed servant Boehmer.

Only one person betrayed no interest in the hôtel or the ball, and that was Charles. He neither discussed it nor permitted it to be discussed. He was not interested in whether his wife opened her house or pulled it down. He preserved a stony silence which discouraged comment to his face and caused a furore of talk behind his back. What was even more extraordinary about this most tantalising situation was the rumour, gained from the indiscretion of Mme. Macdonald's simple little maid to another servant, that the husband was in the habit of visiting his wife, entirely capriciously, and staying the night with her.

It was this last rumour, coupled with Anne's preparations to make her stay at Versailles and Paris permanent, that tortured Louise as effectively as if she were being subjected to the rack. She and Charles were reconciled again, but it was an uneasy reconciliation; there were times when it took all her considerable skill to hold his interest and all her charm to keep him in a good humour. On the surface their relationship was unchanged; he spent most of his spare time with her, he made her presents of jewels and dresses bought with his wife's money; they appeared in public together and they made their rendezvous as usual. But all Louise's female instincts sensed a withdrawal in him, and she loved him so intensely that she was not deceived by what he irritably insisted was his contempt for and indifference to his wife. One night, driven by jealousy and suspense, she had unwisely asked him whether he indeed made love to Anne, and the curt answer made her bitterly regret having asked the question.

‘I need a change from you and she provides it. You don't own me, and I shall sleep with whom I please!'

And yet she had allowed him to make love to her after he had said it, hating him and needing him and despising her own weakness. Marie, the stolid maid who had been through so many phases of her mistress' life and watched the course run by all her love affairs, considered that the baroness was bewitched. Marie was not only her maid, she was now her closest confidante, the recipient of Louise's fears and disappointments and outbursts of jealousy; the one to whom every word and gesture of Charles, the most intimate secrets of their relationship were poured out by her mistress.

‘She's going to stay here,' Louise said again. ‘And he has encouraged her! He could have ordered her to go away, I know he could. Now this hôtel in Paris, a ball to which the King will go.… She is established at court! I shall never be rid of her!'

‘Perhaps it is the Irishman who keeps her here,' Marie suggested. ‘If they are lovers, all this must be to please him, madame.'

‘I wish I knew,' Louise turned round to her. ‘If it were really that; if I could prove that she was this mercenary's mistress. But in my heart, Marie, I don't believe she is. I think it's to make Charles jealous!'

‘And is he?' Marie asked her.

‘No.' Louise almost spat the word. ‘Because he doesn't believe it either! But if it were so – Ah, my God, Marie, he may not want her, but I should hate to be in her place if he found out that she were deceiving him with that beggar! She'd leave Versailles soon enough then!'

‘It should be easy enough to find out,' Marie said. ‘All you need is a servant in that household who can watch them. I could ask Pierre if he knows anyone, preferably a woman, who could take employment at the Hôtel de Bernard. You would have to pay her, madame. These people are not cheap if they're going to be reliable.'

‘Find someone,' Louise said quickly. ‘I'll pay whatever they ask. And tell Pierre there'll be twenty pistoles for him if he can arrange it.'

‘One of the Duchesse de Gramont's maids would be perfect,' Marie said. ‘She would be sure to get a place in any household coming from there. I will try and send him a message this evening, madame. He may slip away from his duties for a little time.'

‘Marie.' Louise went to her bureau; she spoke with her back to the maid. ‘I'm very grateful to you. You're a clever girl. Here, take this.… I'll double it the day I can show M. Macdonald proof that his wife and that fellow are lovers.'

She threw a little purse towards Marie who caught it and made her mistress a deep curtsy.

‘You shall have the proof, madame. Even if it doesn't exist.' And she laughed.

‘My dear Anne, how nice it is to spend a few moments together away from all the crowds of people.'

Lady Katherine turned to her daughter-in-law and smiled. Both ladies were walking through the ornamental gardens towards the magnificent Bassin de Neptune fountain in the palace grounds. It was a beautiful spring day, and they wore light cloaks over their dresses and carried muffs made of lace and ribbons. They walked slowly, bowing to people they passed who were also promenading in the sunshine. Two little page boys trotted at a distance of twenty-five paces behind them as it was considered improper for ladies of rank to walk anywhere unattended.

‘Privacy is impossible,' Anne answered. ‘How I long to move to Paris to my own house. You can come and see me often there, dear Mme. Mama.'

‘James will be very grateful,' Katherine said. ‘He grows more and more oppressed by living here. You may find we visit you much too often!'

‘That could never be,' Anne said. ‘You're like my own parents. You will dine with me before the ball, won't you?'

‘We'll be delighted. Everyone I meet is talking about it, and quite a lot of people are hinting to me about invitations.' She laughed. ‘You know, my dear, for someone who has spent her life at Charantaise, living far away from the court, you have caused more sensation in the last two months than anyone I can recall! You will invite the Du Barry, of course?'

‘Of course. I very badly want the King to come. I wanted to ask you, Mme. Mama, will you present me to the Du Barry soon – I've never met her and I know you're on friendly terms.'

‘I will with pleasure. I only advise you to be extremely pleasant but not to get intimate. She's a deplorable creature in many ways, though quite kindhearted in others. Certainly her friends are not fit companions for you. Tell me something, why have you decided to launch yourself so spectacularly at court? I imagined you'd tire of it after a few weeks and hurry back to Charantaise … I'm delighted, my dear Anne, but still a little surprised.'

‘You cannot guess why?' Anne asked her. They turned off the main promenade path down towards the enormous shimmering fountain, its jets sending a cloud of water and spray into the air.

‘No', Katherine said. ‘I cannot. Unless you have grown to like court life, and I find that very out of character.'

‘I detest Versailles,' Anne said quietly. ‘I detest living in two dingy little rooms like cupboards, standing for hours on end, being hungry and thirsty – cold when it's cold, and baked when it's hot; I hate fighting for food and drink and spending my time running from one salon to another in the King's wake and running upstairs to change my costume ten times a day. I hate every moment of it. As for living in Paris and coming here at the same time – it will be a nightmare. But if I am going to please my husband, then I must be where he is and do what he likes doing. If my parties are lavish enough, he'll come to them instead of other peoples'; if I have a splendid house, he will visit me there. That's why I am doing it. I shan't keep him by living at Charantaise, however much I love it.'