by Juliet Grey
He sighed heavily and stared down at his boots. “My father is also unaware that I have written to my sister Sophie, from whom I spare no confidences. I told her that I do not wish to form any conjugal ties. Since I cannot belong to the one person to whom I want to belong, to the only woman who really loves me, I don’t want to belong to anybody.”
His words hung in the sultry air, requiring no clarification. My breath caught in my throat. Dare I give voice to the words that dwelled within my breast? Finally I summoned the courage to murmur, “When we said farewell, you promised to claim a kiss upon your return. I would not be so ungenerous as to deny a victorious war hero his due.” Perhaps the fact that he had suffered enabled me to speak so boldly, for I have always been drawn to souls in pain—among them Marie Thérèse de Lamballe and Gabrielle de Polignac.
There were no witnesses about. No entourage had shadowed us. And Axel needed no more than a moment’s thought before he accepted his reward. Under the indifferent gaze of a pair of livestock, one black and white, the other chestnut red, Count von Fersen enfolded me in his arms and inclined his head, bringing his lips to meet mine, softly at first with a tentative, featherlight touch; and then more confidently and insistently, as I wound my arms about him and clung like a woman who has spent months in the desert and finally stumbles upon a watery oasis.
When she was schooling me in how to respond to my future husband’s caresses, Maman had assured me that my body would know what to do and everything would flow naturally. Yet it had never been that way with Louis. Joseph had been right; the king and I were two naïve and clumsy duffers in the bedchamber, and six years’ time and the birth of two children had not improved the quality of our conjugal relations. Of late, he came to my bed so infrequently that every time we made love, it seemed as though our loins had to learn the skills anew.
But this—this first kiss I had ever enjoyed that was born out of passion and longing—was a revelation. My body did know what to do, or at least my mouth did, following Axel’s lead as easily if we were dancing. My jaw relaxed, widening to receive his tongue—an entirely new sensation—as he explored my own. Shivers of pleasure sent electric tingles along the length of my spine. He pressed me closer, then caressed my neck and ran his fingers through my unpowdered hair. His mouth moved to one of my earlobes and I thought I would burst out of my skin with desire. I had never been kissed by someone who knew how to do it, moreover, someone who cherished me with the ardor of a lover.
Moments later, Axel could feel my body tensing in his arms, and I drew back from his embrace, my face warm and flushed. His eyes, today as blue as his coat, were shining.
I tried to speak. “I …” But no more words would come.
We glanced about furtively; mercifully, we remained entirely alone. “Pardonnez-moi, Toinette. I will never again compromise you thus,” said Axel hoarsely. In the manner of knights of old he sank to one knee and took my hands in his, kissing them respectfully. “But I cannot part from you today without telling you that I breathe only for you and will dedicate the remainder of my life to your happiness and security. And when I am near you, a soft word, your kind regard, a single stolen glance, will define my pleasure.”
In the music room at le Petit Trianon I gave him the flacon of toilet water I had commissioned from Monsieur Fargeon. “It will be a sign between us when you wear it,” I said. “Every time, I will think of our love.”
I accompanied Axel back to the Château de Versailles. There were others he wished to greet upon his return. As we mounted the marble staircase, a commotion behind us heralded the return of the king from whatever private pursuit he had been enjoying. Louis passed us on the stairs, his gaze intently focused on a lock clasped in his hands. It was not until he was several treads above us that he turned and halted as though he had forgotten something.
“Ah, ma chère!” He paused, then regarded Axel, who immediately bowed in acknowledgment of his presence. “Ah. So the count did find you, Toinette. I trust you have passed a pleasant afternoon. Mine,” Louis said, turning the lock over to admire it again, “has been remarkable.”
I could have said the same, but I dared not meet the gaze of either man.
SEPTEMBER
In the dining room of the Château de Rohan in Saverne dozens of guests dined on gold plate, while countless beeswax tapers illuminated silver epergnes laden with foodstuffs and hundreds of cut-crystal goblets brimming with France’s finest vintages. Among the notables was the marquise de Boulainvilliers who had sought out the renowned Count Cagliostro in the expectation that he would cure her of an ailment her physician had been powerless to assuage. Accompanying the marquise was her charming foster daughter, the twenty-seven-year-old comtesse Jeanne de Lamotte-Valois, the last (but for her brother and younger sister) survivor of that line of illustrious kings, the descendant of an illicit union between Henri II and his mistress, Nicole de Savigny.
The soi-disant comtesse (as Jeanne had bestowed the title upon herself) tried not to goggle at the cardinal’s displays of wealth: the Gobelin tapestries that illustrated the great classical myths in silken threads, heavy draperies of velvet and brocade, and gilded mirrors that reflected the painted countenances of some of the highest nobles in the land. She had never seen such opulence, except at Versailles, where she had begun to ingratiate herself in the hopes that the queen would take an interest in her plight. Jeanne had twice attempted her first ploy, deliberately fainting in the presence of Her Majesty, but failed to elicit the queen’s notice, the halls being too thronged with people for Marie Antoinette to spy the slender brunette sinking to the parquet, particularly when a crush of people gathered around the poor soul, or so they thought, as though she were some sort of curiosity. At least someone loosened her stays and offered her a sip of brandy to revive her spirits.
Remaining undaunted, the clever comtesse had heard that the king’s sister Madame Élisabeth had a kind and sympathetic soul, and so she pretended to swoon in the princesse’s antechamber. Informed that a lady of quality had fainted from starvation in her rooms, Madame Élisabeth ordered her servants to bear the young woman on a litter back to her lodgings in the town and requested her own doctors to attend her. After playing upon Élisabeth’s compassion for a fellow blueblood fallen on hard times, a gift of two hundred francs soon followed, and the princesse’s chaplain undertook to raise an additional three hundred on the comtesse’s behalf. With such a powerful patron, Jeanne retained the highest hopes that the royal pension of eight hundred francs a year—won only after refusing to quit the Finance Minister’s office, and hardly befitting her birthright—would be substantially increased. Her brother Jacques, a soldier, had been permitted by the king to use the title baron de Valois, but that acknowledgment of their ancestry was merely the beginning of the restitution of her family’s estates and the recognition of her lineage that she desired.
Before the splendid meal began, the marquise de Boulainvilliers had presented Jeanne to their host, explaining that she had taken the young woman and her sister under her roof when they were children—“Orphaned waifs, begging by the side of the King’s Highway; I insisted that my husband the marquis halt our carriage. Tell the cardinal, ma chère, what your mother had taught you to say to people.”
Jeanne needed little prompting. Aware, from the appraising glint in his dark eyes, that the prince de Rohan, suave and handsome, though graying at the temples and reeking of costly perfume, had already assumed a certain interest in her welfare, she repeated the litany that had put coins in their pockets and crusts of bread on their table. Widening her eyes and proffering her upturned palm as she had done countless times during her impoverished youth, she said “Kind lady, kind gentleman, take pity on a little orphan child who descends in a direct line from Henri the Second, one of your country’s greatest kings.”
The presence of an actual descendant of the Valois went to Rohan’s head like strong drink. The cardinal took the comtesse’s hands in his and, pressing them with an insistence th
at scarcely concealed his attraction, urged her to tell him more about her origins.
“My father was wrongfully imprisoned for debts and died soon after his release,” Jeanne said softly. “Maman, who had once been a lowly serving wench in my grandfather’s household, took up with a lover who thought to usurp Papa’s place. And then she abandoned us entirely.”
Visibly moved by her sorrowful tale, the forty-nine-year-old cardinal claimed her attention for the better part of the evening, stirred by the notion that he might somehow do some service to the charming Valois.
Flattery opened men’s doors. Comtesse de Lamotte-Valois admired the unusual signet ring he wore on his pinky, a massive solitaire engraved with the Rohan crest.
“Merveilleux, isn’t it,” the cardinal agreed enthusiastically. “But its provenance is even more remarkable.” Gesturing toward his perpetual guest of honor, who was deep in conversation with Jeanne’s benefactress Madame de Boulainvilliers, he added, “Count Cagliostro made it for me—created it out of thin air! I saw him do it, madame la comtesse—never removed my eyes from his crucible! It defies every known science. You may have heard the rumors—that he is hoodwinking me and exploiting my patronage for his own ends. But I can assure you that it’s nothing but médisance from a cadre of malcontents who wish me nothing but ill. The most reputable jewelers in France have estimated the worth of this diamond at twenty-five thousand francs. So, I put it to you, madame de Lamotte-Valois”—the last word tasted like honey on his tongue—“how could Cagliostro be a swindler or a charlatan?” And before she could reply, the cardinal offered to escort her to the count’s secret atelier under the eaves.
“He makes gold as well as diamonds,” the prince de Rohan said breathlessly, his eyes shimmering with covetousness. He lowered his voice and clasped the comtesse’s hands in his. “Five or six thousand francs’ worth he manufactured right before my eyes—and he will make much more, rendering me the richest man in Europe. It is not a trick, I assure you; Cagliostro has mastered the skill of transmuting base metals into purest gold.”
Jeanne de Lamotte-Valois bit her tongue, quietly marveling at how one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, the most celebrated descendant of an ancient and venerated family, could be so gullible. She had no doubt that Cagliostro’s alchemy was little better than a circus trick, but the sheer force of his magnetic personality, combined with the cardinal’s utter willingness to believe whatever he wished to see and hear, and de Rohan’s evident avarice despite his substantial wealth, had managed to render the cardinal-prince a puppet in the mountebank’s clever hands.
The prince de Rohan invited comtesse de Lamotte-Valois to call upon him the following day, but rather than hear her entire tale of woe in one of his numerous public rooms, he escorted her to his boudoir, le salon des singes, a chamber more opulent than that of any Eastern potentate. Jeanne had never seen anything quite so exotic. The white paneling was accented with ornately carved and gilded boiserie; on the upper panels the Chinoiserie paintings depicted recognizable members of the French court, including the queen, garbed in Oriental robes. The lower panels were decorated with cavorting monkeys—les singes—limned in every conceivable position, most of them lascivious. The beasts’ tails were suggestive of the male organ, and in fact one of the monkeys was depicted in a scarlet robe, daintily lifting his tail out of the way so that he might snuff out a candle with his furry derrière.
Jeanne had lived by her wits for most of her life. That the Grand Almoner of France should sleep here, in a room all but designed for debauchery, provided yet another key to the man’s character. And when this prince of the church conducted her to the vast bed and, sitting beside her, urged her to tell him everything about herself, she handily summoned a tear or two to her eye and a rosy blush to her cheeks.
“The pension granted by His Majesty is extremely modest; my husband and I cannot support ourselves on eight hundred francs a year. Nicolas tendered his resignation when the commander of his regiment tried to force himself upon me. Life has since been very difficult, monsieur,” Jeanne confessed, her lips aquiver. “I should very much wish for an increase to the royal pension, but it is my life’s mission to recover our ancestral lands—the Fontette estates in Bar-sur-Aube in Champagne,” she told him. “For until the king grants me the permission to reclaim them, the comte and I are compelled to decamp from one apartment to another, each more squalid than the last.”
It wasn’t entirely the truth, but the comtesse knew when to spin a fanciful web around her prey. Within moments, the cardinal had clasped her hands in his, bringing her closer to his breast. “I wish you had said something sooner, last night, even, for it pains me to see you in such distress when I could have relieved you of many moments’ agony.” He rose from the bed and unlocked a chest embellished with handpainted Sèvres plaques. Removing a purse stuffed to bursting with gold coins, he bestowed it on the comtesse, urging her to call upon him as often as she wished, whether in Strasbourg, Paris, or Versailles. “I assure you, madame, I shall forward your affairs at court at the first opportunity. With your illustrious name, not to mention your considerable personal charms,” he added, with a longing glance at her small but perfectly proportioned bosom, “it should be a simple matter to effect restitution of your property at Fontette. And in return,” becoming agitated and breathless the longer he gazed at her, he added, “you must promise to give me your complete … confidence.”
Both parties knew it would not be long before the comtesse would give him considerably more than that. Jeanne feigned a demure smile and favored her new benefactor with a doe-eyed look of gratitude. An understanding had been reached.
Throughout the summer Count von Fersen had been corresponding with his father in Sweden in an effort to forestall his return. It had not been my suggestion to find a way for him to remain in France, but once Axel had confided his plan to purchase the Royal Suédois, the regiment of Swedish mercenaries in the service of the king, I would have done anything within my power to help him obtain his dream. Whereas other courtiers most often spoke to me of banalities or endeavored to amuse me, Axel did neither of these things. Not being a Frenchman he lacked both reason and need to ingratiate himself with me, because he could hold no office at court. True, I enjoyed frivolity, but I enjoyed a respite from it in equal measure, and the Count von Fersen supplied it. He and I alone discussed weightier and more personal matters. We each had a domineering parent, forever chastising us, and a sister we adored. I never confided as I did to Axel with the likes of Coigny, Besenval, or even Lauzun, for secrets were currency at Versailles and I was too easily compromised by a friend who might one day become an enemy.
The count and I had gone boating in the Grand Canal on a listless afternoon. Insistent midges hovered above the blue-green water; when they came too close to the boat, attracted perhaps by the scent of my orange flower water or by the fresh blooms I wore in my hair according to the current fashion, I endeavored to fan them away.
“Papa tells me I am being selfish in asking him for a loan. He accuses me of pursuing a foolish and arrogant luxury.” Axel exhaled a ponderous sigh, and rested the oars in their brackets. The rowboat bobbed a bit and began to float along of its own volition, borne by the gentle breeze that riffled the placid surface of the water. Reaching into his pocket, he handed me the most recent letter from his father.
I would gladly consent to this plan of yours if I didn’t see one small impediment: neither you nor I have the necessary funds. You say it will cost you 100,000 livres to buy the regiment and that you can secure a loan; but the income it will bring you amounts to only 12,000 a year and you have to factor in 5000 livres in interest on the initial sum of the loan. How do you expect to live on 7000 livres a year? Such a paltry figure would be an impossibility in Paris, where one can barely scrape by on 25,000. Where would you get the money?
Since returning from North America you have cost me between 300 and 500 livres, a sum that is significantly beyond my means, yet amounts t
o the entire fortune of some families. I ask you, is it fair to your two sisters and to your younger brother, who is about to go forth into the world, and who has an equally valid claim on his paternal rights? Were you to squander such a sum on a whim you will become their ruin, rather than their support.
The elder count’s letter reminded me of so many scoldings from Maman that my heart ached for Axel. “I wish to help you,” I said softly. “Perhaps it is selfish of me, but I would be tremendously gratified to think that I might see you more often were you to command the Royal Suédois. Have you written to Gustavus?” I asked him, aware that his sovereign might be persuaded to intercede with Senator Fersen.
Axel nodded. “As soon as I received that letter from Papa, I put pen to paper. And I understand that Gustavus has corresponded with the King of France regarding the matter.”
Louis had enough to occupy him; as it was he spent sleepless nights in his library poring over documents and decrees. We had not slept together as husband and wife in several months and neither of us seemed to miss the other’s presence.
“I will answer Gustavus’s letter myself,” I promised Axel. At this, illuminated with gratitude, his countenance brightened considerably. He leaned forward to kiss me, but under the open sky with so many courtiers milling about the banks of the Grand Canal, I was certain we were being watched. “I must read your thanks in your eyes rather than receive it from your lips,” I murmured.
“Éléphant!” cried Madame Royale, pointing to the baby pachyderm giving himself a mud bath in his enclosure at the royal menagerie. Frowning at the animal, she pouted. “I wish you and madame la gouvernante would let me play like that.”
