Fires of Delight

by Vanessa Royall

  Louis XVI was even more unprepossessing. It was not that he did not look manly, in spite of his considerable girth. It was more that he seemed without particular character or personality. His attempt at projecting a gregarious air was unsuccessful; he seemed harried and bewildered.

  Selena knew one thing for certain: she could not imagine herself in bed with the man, or even kissing him, for that matter. Then she saw Zoé Moline studying her, and realized that her reaction to His Majesty was all too readable.

  Be careful, she thought, veiling her expression.

  “Did you find out anything?” Francesca hissed again, as the King and Queen took seats at the table.

  “Hush,” said Selena. “Later.”

  The princess smiled in relief, eager to believe that her prayer of joining William in England was soon to be answered.

  This dining room was located deeply within the interior of the royal residence, and only an intermittent, faraway rumble reminded hosts and guests of that hungry, unwelcome host outside the walls. Marie Antoinette chattered away about whatever came into her head, as if to block out the distant mutter of dissent. But Louis seemed unable to keep from listening to it, although he attempted, time and again, to rouse himself by interjecting some new topic for conversation.

  “Ah, my good friend Marc, what wonders you have wrought for these fair ladies!” he exclaimed over the sorrel soup.

  “Ah, Francesca, why the long face?” he inquired over the poached sea bass. “Never you fear. Nothing untoward will befall the Bourbon dynasty. I have it on good authority from the British diplomat, Lord Bloodwell, that England will send an army to protect us if the rabble resort to violence.”

  Zoé sent Selena a fierce glance: You had best prepare to do what’s expected of you, young lady!

  Selena was somewhat puzzled, not by Zoé, but by the King. For a man who planned to have her later, he seemed barely to notice her. Well, maybe that was his way.

  If so, it was fine with her. Perhaps it would continue.

  “Ah,” said Louis, over Burgundy and beef bordelaise, “pray tell us, Captaine Pinot-Noir, of your recent adventure.”

  Captaine Jacques, who had thus far manifested little to reveal his personality except for rather loutish table manners—he tended to chomp and drool—cleared his throat noisily and became loquacious and wildly animated. Selena was afraid he would overturn wineglasses, perhaps even hurl away his fork, as he related the great sea battle of which he’d been a part.

  “We were sailing north from the Azores,” he declared, scattering morsels of partially chewed beef into the air above the table, “when what should befall but we see in the distance the ship that has been hunting us for years. I swear and vow, my lord, there is nothing comparable to being stalked by an enemy you know not who, for a reason you know not why. But on all of the seven seas he has come after us, and always we have fled.”

  “Why not turn and fight, my man?” asked Marc Moline, fierce dressmaker.

  “It is not only that the demon ship is well-armed,” Pinot-Noir went on. “It is rather something terrible and remorseless in its pursuit of us, almost as if there were nothing we could do against it anyway. And most curious, even horrifying, is its flag, the likes of which I have never seen before. Why, that foul banner bears the images of camel, snake, and elephant! Has ever the like been heard?”

  Captaine Jacques banged on the table for emphasis.

  “Witchcraft, I’m sure,” said the Queen, interested.

  Selena and Martha Marguerite managed not to look at each other. They knew now that Jean Beaumain had finally gotten close to his quarry, knew too that they could not mention Jean’s name here, since Zoé Moline had been informed that he was Selena’s betrothed.

  Things were complicated further when the King sighed, “Ah! Hubert Chamorro. My good, kind friend. And how was the matter resolved, Captaine?”

  Pinot-Noir rinsed out his mouth with Cabernet Sauvignon and continued. “The evil ship had us outrun and outgunned,” he said. “I shrink to tell you this, but we ran up the white flag. Not to surrender, mind you, but as a trick. Chamorro had decided to let the villains come aboard where we would slaughter them, as they so richly deserved, at close quarters.”

  He fell silent.

  “And they came aboard?” prodded Marie Antoinette.

  “Oh, yes. It was terrible. Never have I seen men fight like that. We had no chance. They battled without thought for their lives. I wish I knew what drove them, but whatever it was could not be resisted. A dozen of our men were killed in the first moments. They lost not one, due to the passionate frenzy of their assault.”

  “Had I been there, I would have aided you,” said the King.

  “I have heard that you are a great hunter,” commented Selena innocently.

  Louis scowled her way, knowing she’d heard of his deer-shooting from the palace window.

  “The strangest thing of all,” Pinot-Noir went on, “is that after our crew was subdued, the attackers took Chamorro away. Only our leader, no one else. And we have not heard from him to this day.”

  “Ah! Poor Hubert,” said the King. “Could you recognize the bandits?”

  “Alas, no. But the name of their ship was the Liberté.”

  “Drat,” declared the King. “That foul word again.”

  Selena noticed that Princess Francesca was staring at the little gold cross, which was, as always, around her neck.

  “I will send forth word to the fleet,” promised the King. “The Liberté is to be sunk on sight!”

  Selena took a contemplative sip of wine. She was, in a sense, pleased that Jean Beaumain had at last closed with and captured his death enemy. She was already sure that Chamorro lived no more, and that his death had not been easy. But the great irony was that Chamorro hadn’t even remembered Jean Beaumain, or what he’d done to him. She recalled that old Senora Celeste hadn’t remembered what she’d done to Selena either. Of what consequence was revenge when one’s enemy had no recollection of the wrong that was being redressed? It was all rather tedious and sad.

  “Let us toast Hubert Chamorro,” said Pinot-Noir, standing up and swaying drunkenly, glass in hand. “We shall not see his like again!”

  Everyone stood and drank, although Selena merely touched the rim of the glass to her lips.

  From outside the palace, into this secure little dining chamber, intruded the echo of a wild, raging cry. There was something terrifying about it, and the diners quieted, looking at the ceiling and the walls as if knowing that neither stone nor plaster nor wood could offer protection from an enemy that was more spirit than flesh.

  “Have you decided what to do about the mob?” Selena heard Marie Antoinette ask the King. “My God, what do those fiends want?” she asked of no one in particular.

  “They have no bread,” said Francesca.

  “Then,” replied the Queen, smiling nervously, “let them eat cake.”

  Pinot-Noir burst into laughter and the Molines tittered appreciatively. No one else reacted.

  The King stared gloomily at his bulging belly.

  “Let us repair to the ballroom,” he said, as if honoring an invitation to his own funeral.

  Princess Francesca sidled up to Selena and walked alongside her to the ballroom. The shouts of the mob outside were quite audible now, and everyone was nervous. “I could not help but notice the motto that is inscribed upon the cross you’re wearing,” she said. “Pray tell, what does it mean?”

  Selena looked at the girl. She truly did not know; her question was not facetious in the least.

  “It is what some in your uncle’s kingdom desire.”

  Francesca was mystified. “Why, they have liberty, equality, and brotherhood already. Can’t they see that? Perhaps we—you and I—should go out and explain things to them. Then they will go away and we can have fun at the ball!”

  “I don’t think that would be wise.”

  “Perhaps you are right. Men are better at that sort of thing. But
tell me, what have you learned to aid me in my plan to reach England?”

  This was the question Selena had been expecting. She decided to buy more time. “I’d advise you to wait at least until the morrow,” she said.

  That was not what the princess wanted to hear.

  “No,” she said, lifting her chin.

  “Please. You may place yourself in some harm.”

  “But I must reach William and be at his side. Uncle Louis has been saying that this revolution, or whatever it’s called, will burn itself out of its own accord.”

  “I hope, for your sake, that he is right. But I doubt it.”

  “Well, I don’t care. My mind is made up. There is nothing stronger, did you know, than a Hapsburg who has decided upon something.”

  Nor anyone more stubborn, thought Selena.

  “I am going to flee tonight, just after the dance,” Francesca whispered.

  “Why don’t you leave now?”

  “I don’t want to miss the dance.”

  “I see,” sighed Selena. Now she would have to watch out for this young girl, who was so obviously smitten by love, so clearly untutored in the ways of the world that she would risk great harm on a course of action sure to tempt disaster.

  Captaine Pinot-Noir came up then and offered one arm to Selena and the other to the princess. Thus escorted, they followed the monarchs into the ballroom. Marc Moline, likewise, accompanied Zoé and Martha Marguerite.

  Selena had been informed that the ball was to take place in something called the Hall of Mirrors. She’d been looking forward to seeing it, particularly in the light of Martha’s constant, awefilled comments regarding the wonder of the place. But even so, she was stunned by its breathtaking, magnificent immensity. This spacious grandeur, like Versailles itself, or Notre Dame, was a monument to genius and beauty. The other side of this wondrous coin, however, was the starving mob outside. The best of all possible worlds, she thought, would be one in which splendor was not created at the expense of humanity.

  A large, festive crowd had already assembled in the hall, men and women alike garbed in clothing the cost of which would have sustained a peasant family for ten years. Selena had never seen such a display of personal ostentation. Louis XVI and his Queen passed through the bowing men and curtsying women, and mounted twin thrones at one end of the hall. A steward stepped discreetly in front of Captaine Pinot-Noir, halting his rather lurching progress, and Selena released his arm. She found herself standing in a small group of noblewomen, who were smiling and hissing to one another.

  “I have heard that the Queen’s new lover is here tonight!” tittered one. “Has anyone seen him?”

  “No,” answered one of her companions, “but I managed to catch a bit of chatter between my maidservant and the girl who attends Madame de Golier. The King has a new lover too.”

  This announcement interested everyone in the little clique, and they leaned toward the speaker for further news.

  “Yes, she is a Scots girl, quite beautiful.”

  “Probably quite common,” sniffed one of the women.

  Selena touched her shoulder and smiled at the woman when she turned.

  “Aye, I’ve ’eard she’s common enou’,” Selena said sweetly, “but ’tis known there be none t’ compare wi’ ’er in mastery o’ men.”

  The little gaggle of gossipers, with their powdered faces and high-piled hair, stared at Selena for an instant, then turned away in angry embarrassment.

  “Pray, tell me when ye see the Scot,” added Selena in the thickest brogue she could muster, “I want t’ ’ave a look m’self.”

  A steward stepped up next to Selena just as the King and Queen were getting settled on their thrones.

  “Mademoiselle Selena,” he whispered, with a kind of pleasant confidentiality, “His Majesty must first receive several dignitaries, but he will join you in his residence thereafter. I shall escort you. Meet me in perhaps ten minutes at the far entrance to the hall.”

  Selena nodded, and he went away.

  Then the King clapped his hands. A liveried majordomo swung open mighty doors at the main entrance and proclaimed in a booming voice:

  “My lords and ladies, the Duke and Duchess of Westphalia!”

  Two rather small people entered the Hall of Mirrors, crossed to the twin thrones and made their obeisances.

  “The King wishes to shore up his relationships with European nobility,” a bewigged, middle-aged bystander whispered sarcastically, “so that if he must go into exile, one country or another will harbor him.”

  Exile? thought Selena. So Louis was, deep down, aware of the current danger.

  Princess Francesca joined Selena then. “Maybe I should leave right now?” she whispered. “No one will notice.”

  The girl appeared quite ready to make the attempt. Selena thought fast. “Listen,” she said, “go to my chamber and wait for me there. No one will suspect a thing.”

  “How excellent!” Francesca cried. “It will be completely unexpected.” She hurried off.

  That will protect her for the time being, Selena thought.

  “The Count and Countess of Venice!” intoned the majordomo.

  “The Marquis and Marchessa of Alsace!

  “The Duke and Duchess of Devonshire!

  “Lord Sean Bloodwell of the British Foreign Office!”

  Selena’s heart jumped to her throat as her former husband, blond as ever, erect, in ruddy good health and smiling slightly, crossed the hall and bowed to their majesties. He was quite popular here, Selena realized, because a spontaneous, good-hearted ripple of applause welcomed him. Of course, she thought. I should have expected him to be here. Had not the King mentioned that Sean Bloodwell had assured him of English protection in the event of full-scale revolution?

  Sean exchanged a few pleasantries with King and Queen, then stepped away from the thrones. Selena attempted to catch his eye—she wanted, at the very least, to say hello to him. Of all the people in the world, he would be pleased to know that she was safe. And perhaps—just perhaps—he would arrange for her to meet with Davina at least once. Oh, certainly he would.

  But he did not look her way, nor even sense her presence. Selena recalled, once more, the mystic pronouncements of Davi the Dravidian regarding the voices of the heart, the secret means of communication by which lovers speak, by which they sense each other’s presences. Such a communion no longer existed between Sean Bloodwell and her. True, theirs had not been a union founded on passionate attachment, but it made Selena sad anyway to think that a gulf lay between them.

  Still, she would speak to him, and she began to move through the assemblage in his direction.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” cried the majordomo.

  “Ah, here comes Marie Antoinette’s latest favorite,” a woman whispered smirkingly.

  “The Vicomte Royce Campbell!”

  Selena was moving toward Sean Bloodwell, preparing words of greeting. She heard Royce’s name announced, but for a moment it did not truly register in her mind. She kept on walking toward Sean for a few more paces. Then the reality of the announcement, of the name, gathered force and came crashing into her consciousness. Royce Campbell, who was dead and buried beneath a wooden cross on the isle of La Tortue half a world away, had just been introduced into the Hall of Mirrors.

  She was not breathing, her heart was not beating. Every cell in her body burned as she spun dreamlike, in slow motion, for a thousand years toward the entrance. As she turned, there in a thin, poised pirouette of time, his name reverberated in her ears.

  Royce!

  Royce!

  Royce!

  And reflected in those multiple mirrors of wonder on the walls, image upon image upon image, striding like a king reborn, like a brilliant dark god come to earth for a night, was

  Royce!

  Royce!

  Royce!

  And then it happened, that mystical flicker of the heart that Davi had told of. There in the great hall, where fully three hund
red people were watching him approach the monarchs, Royce Campbell’s eyes narrowed slightly. He made a quick, reflexive movement, lifting his head slightly, like the keenest of animals noting a minute change in the wind, aware without knowing how or why of a tremor in the heart of time.

  And instantly, his eyes found Selena in the crowd.

  During that instant, when their eyes met and touched and held, the earth ceased to spin, the moon to glow, the wind to move about Versailles. Paris was gone from the face of the earth, and London too, and Prague. France was gone, England lost, America no more. There were no millions dreaming in the night or awaiting the dawn. There was no mob at the gates of this palace, no king, no queen, no courtiers within. There was only a memory of Coldstream Castle, and of the Highlands. The dream-haunted ghost of a wolf shimmered suddenly in the air, too fleet for the mirrors to catch him, and disappeared.

  In that instant, there were only Royce Campbell and Selena MacPherson.

  No others.

  In order to reach the thrones, Royce had to pass within the reach of Selena’s hand. She wanted—she actually tried—to reach out and touch him, but between her brain’s command and her body’s response intervened a barrier as impervious as iron. He was alive, that was certain, which meant that her understanding and acceptance of the past had to be discarded. All right, I’ll discard it. But it wasn’t that simple. No mere act of will could temper the shocking realization that he was alive, so she stood there, stunned and motionless.

  He passed so close to her that she could feel the heat of his body, the movement of his breath in the air.

  But after that first instinctive, preternatural meeting of their eyes, he did not look her way again.

  Even worse, he did not seem to want to!

  Selena was too numb just yet even to be miserable about it. That would come later. Misery has plenty of time. It waits around forever, choosing propitious moments of depression and chagrin to make its full force more damaging.