“Oh!” Pauline looked up, dismayed. “I do beg your pardon! This is my son, Dermide, but of course he should not be here when there are visitors. I am afraid I am not the strictest of mothers.” She caressed Dermide’s hair and then set him on the floor. “Go over to Sophie,” she told him in a stage whisper. “She will take you up to play with your little cousins.” She then started to rise, blushing, but the prince, also blushing, waved her back to her seat with an embarrassed smile.
“Come sit here by me, then,” Sophie heard her say.
And the prince, still smiling, sank down onto the pillows of the daybed.
THREE
Angiolini was all smiles.
“His Holiness favors the match!” he announced, before he had even greeted Camillo or taken the chair the footman held out for him. “Naturally, there will be further negotiations; Napoleon must formally agree to the terms, but I am very optimistic. Indeed, I am more than optimistic. I am confident.” He settled himself with a small grunt and waved away the servant, who bowed and withdrew. “I have this from my most trusted man in Rome; it is as good as done.” He beamed at the prince. “Congratulations, Your Excellency!”
As he had half-expected, the prince did not smile in return. Over the past few weeks, Angiolini had watched Camillo go through various stages in response to the proposal that he marry Pauline. First, surprise and vague dismay. Next—after the initial meeting with Pauline—fascination. After a few more meetings, the prince had committed himself to a public pursuit of Napoleon’s sister. But it was clear that for all his enjoyment of the rituals of courtship, he was not in any hurry to schedule the wedding itself. He had never expressed any impatience with the lengthy and intricate process of securing papal approval for the match. And, more recently, the diplomat had begun to see occasional signs that the prince was having second thoughts.
Now, for example.
Camillo, who had risen when the older man entered, did not sit down again. His expression was guarded and unhappy. He did not respond directly to Angiolini’s announcement but took a turn about the room and then came back to stand in front of his visitor. “I am not certain that we should proceed so quickly,” he said.
Quickly! Angiolini kept smiling, but he was gritting his teeth. His correspondence with the pope on behalf of the young couple had been occupying most of his time for the past two months. “Have you heard from your mother?” he asked, temporizing. He knew the answer because he had intercepted the letter and read it before allowing it to be delivered. Princess Anna Maria thought it was high time her son married and produced an heir; she was strongly in favor of this particular match because Pauline had already proved that she could bear sons.
“My mother is hardly an unbiased advisor. She has been urging me to marry for the last five years. Nor has she met my potential bride.”
With a graceful gesture, Angiolini acknowledged the point. “Has something happened, then, to discourage you? Has Madame Leclerc hinted that she does not favor your suit?”
Camillo shook his head. “No, she is charming. But …” He took another turn around the room, this time remaining by the window, facing away from Angiolini. Abruptly, he changed the subject. “Do you know who spoke with me last week at the reception given by Joseph Bonaparte?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “The Contessa di Lanta. You remember her, do you not? My grandfather’s cousin? She has been taking the waters somewhere for a few weeks, but recently she has returned to Paris.”
Angiolini could not imagine why the prince would care about the comings and goings of a fat old woman, even if she was a distant cousin. Every noblewoman in Rome, after all, was related to the Borghese family in some fashion or another, so that did not distinguish her. And this particular distant cousin was truly distant: she had moved to Paris many years ago. Camillo had never met her in Italy and had barely known her name until arriving in France.
“The Contessa di Lanta, yes,” Angiolini said, mystified.
“She, like you, wished to congratulate me on my forthcoming marriage.”
And suddenly Angiolini was no longer mystified.
The countess was one of the biggest gossips in Paris. No, in all of Europe. There were many other purveyors of rumor, scandal, venom, and ridicule in the capital, and Camillo had probably chatted with some of them during the endless round of parties marking France’s return to frivolity under its new First Consul. But this particular purveyor of poison spoke Italian. The others spoke French. So, for the first time, Camillo had actually understood the innuendos and double entendres in the conversation. In fact, knowing the countess, it had probably been much more than innuendo. He studied the prince’s averted face, his folded arms.
He cleared his throat. “Your Excellency, everyone knows the countess is a foolish old woman.”
“Not as foolish as I am!” Camillo turned around and glared at Angiolini. “Apparently I am the only one in Paris who did not realize my intended bride is—is—” His face turned red. “I cannot even say the word!”
“And you believed these lurid accusations?” Angiolini’s tone was a careful blend of sorrow and incredulity.
Camillo dropped sullenly into a chair. “She wasn’t the only one. I’ve been hearing hints from others as well.”
“Those stories have been circulating for years.” Angiolini rose and crossed to the bell. “May I? I find I am suddenly thirsty.”
The servant appeared, disappeared, returned with a decanter and glasses, and withdrew once more.
Angiolini stole a glance at Camillo as they took up their glasses. The interruption had had its effect; the prince looked more subdued now. “Did you think,” the diplomat said gently, “that I would not have heard the tales myself? That I would not have investigated the young woman?” He sipped the wine, set the glass down carefully on the table, leaned back. “What have you heard?”
As he had expected, Camillo was reluctant to make any specific accusations. Eyes fixed on the floor, he mumbled something. The only word Angiolini could be sure of was “wild.” Well, that would do.
“Yes, Madame Leclerc was a bit wild as a young girl,” he conceded. “There was an older man, a Frenchman. The family had recently arrived here from Corsica; the country was in turmoil; they were treated as foreigners because they spoke French with an accent; her older brothers were away at military academy and her father was dead. This scoundrel took advantage of her fear and unhappiness and persuaded her to elope with him.”
“I heard it was Pauline who did the persuading,” muttered the prince.
Angiolini raised his eyebrows. “Do you think that is likely?” he asked. “That a lonely fifteen-year-old girl, mocked by her new neighbors for her poor French, would decide to seduce a man of the world three times her age?” As he had hoped, the picture of Pauline as a victim of French snobbery rang true with Camillo. Angiolini was a reader of men, and he had read the adult Camillo as not very different from the reserved, romantic boy who had spent hours in the family’s great villa staring at the marble faces of ancient nymphs and avoiding his martinet of a father. The prince could appear at every party in Paris, could talk, laugh, drink, dance, dazzle the new court with his elegant clothes and even more elegant manners—but if he had heard the gossip about Pauline, surely he had also heard the jokes at his own expense: that he danced like an angel but spoke like a dunce, that he could ride any horse in France but could not utter two intelligent sentences in a row. That would sting, would sting all the more because there was nothing he could do to change society’s verdict. Of all people, Camillo was most likely to understand why Pauline had been unhappy.
“In any case, it came to nothing. Her family learned of her foolishness and banished the adventurer; shortly afterward she was married to Leclerc and behaved as a good and dutiful wife. She bore him a son. She followed him to the Indies. When he fell ill with a terrible fever, she nursed him day and night with her own hands, and when he died, she was so grief-stricken she cut off all her hair and put it in hi
s coffin. Then she sailed back to France with his remains—months at sea in a tiny cabin with the coffin containing her dead husband. She could not eat or sleep and grew thin and pale.” He paused to let this affecting tableau sink in. “At last she arrived in France, and what did the enemies of her brother do? They spread rumors that her hair had fallen out because of some loathsome disease she had contracted! They accused her of having had an affair on the ship!”
At the mention of this last item, Camillo shifted uncomfortably.
So, he had heard the tale of the groaning ghost. It was Angiolini’s personal favorite among the current collection of stories about Pauline.
He sighed. “Let me guess what the countess told you. She told you that Pauline not only took a lover during the passage back to France but that she received his carnal embraces on her husband’s very casket. That as the sinners reached the height of pleasure, a groan was heard from inside the coffin and the widow fled in terror, screaming to the sailors on deck that her cabin was haunted. That the next morning she found that her back, her legs, her arms, her neck—all the places where her naked flesh had touched the casket—were covered with hideous sores, and when her maid brushed her hair, it all fell out. Thus she was forced to wear a veil and long gloves for the rest of the voyage, in spite of the tropical heat.”
Clearly the countess had indeed told this story; the prince was stiff with embarrassment but showed no sign of surprise or shock.
“A very amusing tale,” added Angiolini in a dry voice. “And not original. Messer Boccaccio tells one very like it.”
The younger man looked up. “Then it is false?”
“Of course it is false! Your Excellency, do you imagine for one moment that I would propose to you an alliance with such a woman? There is not a shred of truth to any of it. You have seen Madame Leclerc for yourself; does she appear to be covered with hideous sores? To be bald?”
At last a suggestion of a smile—the prince sat back in his chair. Absently, he picked up his wine and drained it. They sat in silence for a few moments.
“I can never tell when someone is lying here in France,” said Camillo finally. “At home I often can, but here, no. It is a country of deceit and pretense. Everyone is very amiable, but I do not trust them.”
“When you are married,” Angiolini dared to suggest, “you will return to your own country. To Italy. With the most beautiful woman in Europe as your bride.”
“Perhaps.” Camillo poured himself more wine. “Perhaps.” He still looked troubled.
The most beautiful woman in Europe, at that moment, was sitting in Sophie’s room in her oldest dress, with her hair under a sweat-stained kerchief. She had not slept for two days. There were dark hollows under her eyes, and her hands trembled slightly as she held a damp cloth to Sophie’s mouth. But her voice was perfectly calm.
“Don’t try to talk, Sophie.”
She had been saying the same thing over and over again all day yesterday, and all night, and this morning. Don’t try to talk. It will hurt your throat.
Pauline did not understand how it had happened. None of the servants had been ill, and Sophie did not play with other children. But the previous evening, Sophie had not come downstairs with her cousin to say good-night. Since Pauline was going to a supper hosted by Joseph—yet another group of dignitaries paying homage to the new First Consul—she had been preoccupied and had not questioned the servants about Sophie’s unusual absence.
When she had returned home a few hours after midnight, Carlotta had been waiting for her, half-asleep on a chair in the anteroom to her bedchamber.
“Signora—” she started to say as she scrambled to her feet.
“What is it? Is it Dermide?” Pauline glared at her. “Why are you here? You should be with him! One of the other servants could have waited for me! You should have sent to my brother’s house at once!” While she was speaking—or rather, nearly shouting—she was running up the stairs to the nursery, followed by the panting servant, who called after her plaintively:
“Signora, signora, no!”
Carlotta did not catch up with her until she was kneeling by Dermide. He was sleeping peacefully, curled up in his usual position facing the wall with his thumb in his mouth. She ripped off her right glove and felt his forehead. It was cool, a little damp. He looked angelic.
“It is not Dermide,” gasped Carlotta. “It is Sophie.”
Pauline frowned. “She did not come to the drawing room after supper with Dermide to bid me good-night,” she said slowly, remembering.
“No, signora, she told Nunzia that she had a sore throat and went to bed early.” Carlotta wrung her hands. “The stupid girl did not think to tell anyone that her mistress was not feeling well. But when she came upstairs to turn down the lamps, Sophie was very ill. She fetched me, and I thought you would be back shortly and would know what to do.”
Pauline got up and headed back down to the third floor. “Who is with her now?” she said, looking over her shoulder. “Nunzia or Margot?”
“Nunzia, of course.” Carlotta patronized and bullied the younger servant but defended her to the death against the French-speaking members of the staff.
“What is wrong with her?”
“I don’t know, signora.” Carlotta, hastening down the stairs behind her, was still trying to catch her breath. “She has a fever, I think.”
Sophie’s door was ajar, and lamps were burning in her bedroom and in the sitting room. Pauline swept in, ignoring the young maidservant seated by the bed. She bent over the thin face on the pillow. “Sophie!”
The girl’s cheeks were flushed, and her breath had an odd, staccato catch. The skin on her wrist was like heated parchment. Beside her, Carlotta laid her seamed brown hand on Sophie’s brow. “Blessed Virgin, save me, she is burning up!” she muttered.
“Go get a pitcher of water, a basin, and some cloths,” Pauline snapped at the younger maid. “And have someone in the kitchen put a kettle on to boil.” She turned back to the girl and shook her gently. “Sophie! Can you hear me?”
Sophie’s eyelids quivered but did not open.
“It’s Cousin Pauline,” Pauline said crisply. “Please try to wake up. You are ill, and we need to give you some medicine.” In an undertone, to Carlotta, “Fetch the small green bottle from my traveling case, and a spoon.” After her husband’s death from fever six months earlier, she was never without that bottle, a tincture of Peruvian bark. She tugged the bolster forward and lifted Sophie onto it so that she was almost sitting up. Her head lolled over to one side. Pauline had seen this before, when Emmanuel was dying. Panicking, she grabbed Sophie’s head and held it up, pushing at the bolster with her other hand to wedge it more firmly upright.
The gray eyes opened, closed, opened again, inches away from her own.
“You’re awake!” Pauline was so relieved that she almost let go. She lowered the girl’s head back down to the pillow.
Sophie’s mouth moved. She was trying to say something, but only a croak emerged.
“Here, this will make you feel better.” Carlotta had reappeared with the bottle and spoon, and Pauline poured out half a measure and lifted the spoon toward Sophie.
Looking terrified, the girl shook her head.
“Come now, you’re not a baby like Dermide! You’re not afraid of a little medicine!”
Sophie tried to talk again, and again nothing came out. Tears were running down her face. She pointed to her throat.
“Your throat hurts?”
A weak nod.
“The medicine will help,” Pauline said firmly, tilting the spoon between the cracked lips. “It will taste bitter, but only for a moment.”
Sophie tried to swallow. Pauline could see the muscles in her throat working. But something was wrong. The brown liquid dribbled back out, running down her chin to mix with the tears.
“God,” whispered Pauline. “First Emmanuel and now this poor girl! Heaven is punishing me for neglecting her.” She could feel tears wel
ling up and blinked them away.
“Shall I send for the doctor, signora?” It was the maid, nervously holding the pitcher and basin out in front of her like a shield. Behind her were two of the kitchen staff; in the hall below more lamps were being lit and she could hear the voice of her chamberlain giving orders.
Pauline straightened her shoulders. “Send for the doctor, yes. Heat some barley water with honey. And bring me some wine.”
The servants scattered, but Carlotta turned back at the doorway. “If she dies, she will go to hell,” she said gruffly. “Her father is a godless heathen. We must send for a priest and have her baptized at once.”
For two hours, until the doctor arrived, Pauline sat by Sophie, bathing her face and trying to coax her to swallow the barley water and honey. Carlotta was barred from the room lest she carry the disease to Dermide, and when Nunzia tried to help, Pauline called her a clumsy fool and banished her as well.
The doctor came and went; Pauline did not call him a clumsy fool to his face but thought him even more useless than the maid. He felt Sophie’s pulse and bled her a little. Then he took a small mirror from his bag and reflected a lamp into Sophie’s mouth, opening her jaw as though he were examining a horse or a cow and peering at the back of her throat. He shook his head. “I am afraid that she has the strangling sickness, Madame Leclerc,” he said. “I can do very little. Already she cannot speak; if her throat swells any more, she will be unable to breathe.”
Nunzia, hovering in the doorway, came in as the doctor bowed himself out. She whispered to Pauline, “Signora, I can send for the priest. Father Laurent will be done with the morning service by now.”
“Get out!” screamed Pauline. “Get out, you stupid bitch! We do not need a priest!”
The maid fled.
Sophie couldn’t swallow the barley water, not even in small spoonfuls. Pauline dipped a napkin into the beaker and trickled drops into the corner of Sophie’s mouth. Sophie would doze and wake, and every time she woke, Pauline would jerk herself out of her anxious stupor and hold the warm, sweet cloth at the edge of her lips, squeezing until a thin thread of liquid ran back through her teeth.
The Princess of Nowhere Page 4
