Besides, the tide of life and activity had begun again. People turned to watch in salacious curiosity as Royce Campbell approached the monarchs and bowed. They wanted to see how much aplomb he could maintain while confronting his lover and the man he was, apparently, cuckolding. It was not every day that any man put the cuckold’s horns upon a king after all, and the court, which was at least as much a theater as it was real life, savored a delicious scene.
Selena had, of course, read Shakespeare. But until this moment, the concept of the world-as-a stage had held merely symbolic meaning for her. This time the meaning was heartbreakingly direct. It was no mere actress, but the Queen of France who offered Royce her hand for the kissing. It was no thespian, either, but a Bourbon dynast whose hand also accepted Royce’s kiss of fealty.
It was just this obeisant ritual that roused Selena from her daze and brought her back to reality.
What on earth was Royce doing? What had happened to him?
Had all of her efforts availed nothing? Had all of her influence gone for naught?
When she’d met him, he’d been an opportunistic adventurer. But their relationship had deepened both of them, and he had taken from her the spirit and fire of her essentially individualistic nature, which was also his, and added to his personality her concern for the downtrodden and disadvantaged. Selena’s heart truly went out to the exiled and the dispossessed, because she had been both. And she had come to believe, by Royce’s energetic participation in American revolutionary espionage, that his essential heart had begun to beat as one with hers.
But now she remembered the jewels and sovereigns in the lining of her greatcoat right here in Versailles.
(She also recalled that Francesca had gone to her suite.)
And Selena recollected the curious tale of Royce’s having dealt with the smuggler, LaValle, in Haiti.
Not to mention that Royce was now the King’s friend, the Queen’s lover, and a vicomte. There were only two ways to become a vicomte. A man might be born one; that is, he might inherit the title. Or he might—and this was very rare—be given a title by a monarch in return for some great deed. That would hardly include bedding the monarch’s queen, would it? Unless the French court was even more depraved than Mirabeau and Sorbante believed it to be.
Selena also recalled a story, probably apocryphal, about the Englishwoman who importuned the king in her scoundrel son’s behalf: “Please, milord, make him a gentleman,” she’d begged.
“I regret that I cannot make your fool of a son a gentleman,” the king had responded. “But I can make him a lord if it pleases you.”
Royce Campbell was no fool. He had a French title.
The question was: how had he won it?
Or earned it?
Although the realization caught at her heart, Selena could not entirely discredit the possibility that Royce had gone back to his old opportunistic, self-aggrandizing ways.
Royce stepped back from the thrones, careful not to turn away from King and Queen. He was immediately surrounded by a herd of frothy females. Louis XVI clapped his hands. The orchestra, which had been awaiting his pleasure, began to tune up for the dancing that would follow. A platoon of stewards bearing trays laden with champagne began to circulate among the crowd. Selena remembered that it was time for her to leave for her assignation with the King. But she could see that he was still seated on his throne, conversing earnestly with a Royal Guard officer. Absentmindedly, she took a glass of wine from a floating tray and just stood there, moving now a little left, now a little right, trying to keep her eyes on Royce’s face.
He was laughing and chatting with the admiring women.
He did not look her way, or even seem to remember that he’d seen her.
Selena, who’d always tried to be honest with herself, came to this conclusion: He doesn’t want to know you at all!
So much for Davi the Dravidian and his theories about the mysterious communications of lovers.
The delirious whirl she’d experienced upon seeing him again had been entirely personal. His reaction, into which she’d read so much, had been mere surprise. She was just one woman out of his past, a woman he hadn’t expected to see again, a woman he obviously did not wish to see now. Why take up one’s time with a quite-often-difficult Scots exile, however beautiful, when one could have for the taking a much more complaisant queen?
In the mind of an opportunistic adventurer, there wouldn’t even be the trouble of a choice.
Still, Selena could not but remember, all too realistically, the sweet frenzy of their thousand and one intertwined comminglings, the incomparable feeling of possession when she had him inside her, the bucking surge of flesh upon flesh, and the ultimate moment when he became still upon her but throbbed inside her with tide after tide of his juice.
Oh God, she thought, bereft.
He was laughing with the women.
The King was being helped down from his throne.
Soon it would be time for Selena’s next act upon this world’s stage.
“Hello, Selena,” said Sean Bloodwell, appearing before her. He touched his glass to hers. “My surprise at seeing you here—I noticed you right away, of course—is outweighed only by my joy.”
She tried to tear her eyes away from Royce Campbell and succeeded, but not before Sean saw both the glance and the cost of her effort. His smile was sad but understanding.
“I see, of course, that you still love him.”
Selena didn’t even have the strength to nod. She saw that Sean still loved her, but that he was not again going to risk getting hurt. She remembered their days together in India, their wedding on the deck of the Blue Foray, and those wonderful years in America before she’d learned that Royce had not died of the plague, before she’d become a spy for George Washington. Until those things had happened, they’d led a fine, quiet life in their large, comfortable house in New York. She remembered how he’d liked most to make love upon awakening in the mornings, when their bodies were rested, their senses keener, their climaxes excruciatingly intense.
“I’m sorry, Selena,” said Sean now, as he watched her trying to keep her eyes off Royce Campbell. “He’s reverted to type, I’m afraid. All France knows how the Queen wants him, and how he has served the cause of the monarchy against the revolution. I am not in favor of revolution, either, but at least I have been consistent. Perhaps it was my predictability that tired you of me. In any event”—he touched her glass again and sipped—“I have often regretted that I let you go so easily.”
Naturally, he would bring that up too. She remembered their last time together, in a rat trap tavern in Brooklyn. Gilbertus Penrod had passed a warning that Clay Oakley was looking for Royce and her. She and Royce had met at the tavern and were just about to flee across Long Island to the Selena. But Sean Bloodwell had also learned of their plans and he came into the tavern just as they were about to leave.
Sean had faced Royce. The two men looked at each other.
“I do love Selena,” Royce said.
“I know that. So do I. And she loves both of us. But she loves you more, in a way that is more natural to her, just as it will prove to be more dangerous for her.”
“I have told her that.”
“I expect you have. It is something that would be hard to ignore, but it is something from which Selena has never been dissuaded.”
Then he’d turned to face her. “You have made your choice, haven’t you? Your presence here with Royce is proof of that.”
“Yes,” she replied.
“Selena, I shall always treasure what we had. But it is not there anymore. Perhaps we both destroyed it. We had different loyalties. Things happened. We changed…”
Sean fell silent. Royce waited. He had no wish to intrude upon the conversation, and he respected Sean Bloodwell as a man.
Sean seemed about to speak again, then changed his mind. Instead, he leaned forward. He did not kiss Selena, but pressed his cheek against hers and then withdrew. It hap
pened so quickly that she had no chance to respond. His skin upon hers was as evanescent as the touch of a butterfly’s wing.
“Good-bye, Selena,” he’d said softly. “Ride fast, ride far, farewell.”
“I’ve ridden awfully fast at times,” she said to him now, in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, “but I guess I haven’t gone all that far.”
Sean understood at once. He pressed his fingertips to her cheek.
She felt like crying.
He saw it. “Davina asks after you all the time,” he said, trying to cheer her. “She’d—we’d both—love to have you visit, but we’re leaving for London on the morrow. I’ve been summoned back home for consultations due to the conditions here. Ah”—he paused—“just what is your situation here at court?”
“Nothing to speak of. I guess you might say I’m a lesser guest…” She didn’t want to discuss the details of her current life with him. That would mean bringing up Jean Beaumain, a subject that had grown complicated enough, emotionally and otherwise, with the reappearance of Royce. “Sean…” she began.
“Yes?”
“If I were to be allowed back into Scotland—”
He shook his head sadly. “Not at this time, Selena. Perhaps not ever. You see, royalty has a long memory, and you were a spy. Perhaps you still—”
“No.”
“Well, there are such things as amnesty and pardon. If the British had won the war, a petition for pardon on your part might be considered. But England lost in America. Feelings are still running high.”
“I see,” she said.
“Now, if you were to do what Royce Campbell is doing—”
“What’s that?”
“Why, he’s become a veritable monarchist. I’ve heard there is no one more loyal to King Louis. You will forgive me if I reserve the right to doubt his sincerity, but he has already gotten Louis to send George III a request that Campbell’s transgressions against the Empire be forgiven…”
Selena turned to see Royce still chatting and laughing with the group of adoring young women. A turncoat?
“And if the King considers this request and approves it,” Sean concluded, “Campbell may go back to the Highlands free as a bird.”
Or as a wolf, thought Selena. It did not seem possible. Royce might end his days in Scotland while she would ever be roaming the world, looking for a home.
“Do you know an officer named Clay Oakley?” Selena asked.
“Colonel Oakley? Oh, yes. He is in charge of all our intelligence operations. Indeed, if Britain must intervene on behalf of Louis XVI, Oakley will be in control of strategy. Why do you ask?”
“No particular reason,” Selena said glumly.
“I shall be back here in a fortnight,” Sean was saying. “If the situation is not too dangerous, I’ll bring Davina with me. We can meet then.”
“I’d love it.”
“So would she. So would I.” He touched his lips to her forehead. She looked up at him. They did not embrace, but at that moment they were as close as they had ever been in their marriage bed. “I’m leaving now,” he said. “Make sure you stay inside the palace tonight. No one knows how wild the mob outside will become.” He took her hand and squeezed it affectionately. “It has made me happy to see you again.”
“You have my love,” she said, “and so does Davina.”
“Au revoir.”
Sean departed. Selena stood alone for a moment. The orchestra was ready to commence; the dancing would soon begin. At the far entrance, the steward was waving to Selena. Come. Now. What is the matter with you?
But the King was standing near his throne, Marie Antoinette beside him, chatting with the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire.
Selena decided, then and there, to walk over and confront Royce. Her initial burst of joy at seeing him alive was mitigated in a troubling way by a gnawing disappointment she did not want to face. He simply could not have gone back to his old opportunism. Yet how could she doubt that he had? The evidence was overwhelming. One part of her wanted to rush to him and lose herself in his arms; the other part wanted to get the jewels and sovereigns from her greatcoat and fling them at his feet.
“There!” she would say. “It’s Judas money. Take it.”
From outside the palace, a mighty roar arose, followed by gunfire. Everyone in the Hall of Mirrors fell silent. Before anyone could act, however, an officer of the Guard rushed in and approached His Majesty. The officer was too agitated for discretion, and his message to the King was easy to overhear.
“Majesty, the mob has charged the gates!” he cried, which set off a flurry of alarm in the hall.
Louis was no less affected. He stood there, sputtering, befuddled and, yes, frightened. The Queen took his arm.
“What are your orders, my lord?” the officer asked.
“Perhaps,” said the King, “the Guard and the army should cease firing?”
“No!” declared Marie. “That is what the rabble want. There will be no hope for us then.”
“But we wish to avoid bloodshed…”
“Have them fire!” ordered the Queen.
The officer had no idea what to do, nor whose command to obey.
“If you will permit me a suggestion,” said Royce Campbell then, stepping forward authoritatively, “I think I have a solution that might calm the mob somewhat.”
“Pray, what is it?” asked the King, relieved.
Royce took the monarch and the officer aside, but Selena made haste to be as near them as possible, and she overheard enough of Royce’s plan to catch both its shrewdness and its meaning.
“…army and Royal Guard…” he was saying. “…people hate both…only chance is to withdraw them, replace them overnight with Lafayette’s National Guardsmen…crowd knows he is sympathetic to their cause…but he is a reliable man…has seen war…will avert bloodshed…I will go to him now and ask his help…”
Louis was undecided, as always. “But what of the morrow?” he asked.
“Get all of your officers and ministers assembled,” Royce said. “When I return from my meeting with Lafayette, it will be necessary to make some hard decisions.”
Royce and the officer hurried away. Selena was torn. She had been completely ignored by Royce, but that was understandable under the critical circumstances, wasn’t it? The howling of the mob grew louder and louder outside the palace. Moreover, although she could not help but be thrilled by the way he had taken command of the situation, his efforts and loyalties had certainly been marshalled in the monarchy’s behalf. I guess nobody really changes very much, she thought ruefully.
At least she would not have to rendezvous with the King. He left immediately with a gaggle of courtiers and guards. The members of the orchestra began packing their instruments. Guests drifted away and very soon the Hall of Mirrors was vacant, save for a crew of servants scurrying about, straightening up, like attendants after a wake.
Selena left the hall alone, uncertain what to do or where to go. She thought of Francesca, but the girl would be safe enough. I’ll have a look at the situation outside, she decided. Several long corridors brought her to the front of the palace, and a couple of elegant staircases led to a window overlooking the outside wall. Here the din of the ceaseless chant, “Bread! Bread! Bread!” was overwhelming, and in the torchlit swarm beneath her, Selena got a clear look at the beast. In vast, undulating surges, tides of flesh and blood, the mob pressed forward at points along the palace wall to be driven back momentarily by soldiers, only to regroup and press forward again. Rage was thick in the air, palpable as a hurled rock.
In the distance, beyond the mob, Selena saw Royce Campbell. He was standing on the ground next to Lafayette, who leaned down from his white charger, listening. Some kind of arrangement was made, some bargain struck, for as Selena watched, the general wheeled his horse and began to ride down the line of his waiting National Guardsmen. They took up their weapons and began to move toward the palace, slowly but surely threading their way through t
he mob, relieving and replacing the hated army personnel, who retreated gratefully but gracelessly as the mob cheered.
The situation had been controlled for the time being, but it was not defused. There were too many emotions, too many factions, for the revolution to be tamed by a mere change of tactics. One part of the mob was satisfied just to stand screaming at the palace. Another segment would not be content until they managed to breach the palace defenses. Still another would be disappointed unless Louis XVI himself were dragged out on the terrace and pulled limb from limb. Perhaps there were even some out there who would not consider the night a success until they ate and digested a tatter of his fat, raw flesh.
Royce’s ploy and Lafayette’s action had succeeded only in buying time.
The mob continued to howl for bread.
Then Selena saw Royce exchange a final word with the general and re-enter the palace.
“I’ll go to him now!” she said aloud. If she hurried, she could intercept him before he retired to plan strategy with the King and his ministers. Racing down the staircases, she miscalculated her location inside the palace and made a wrong turn down an unfamiliar corridor. Heart pounding, blood racing, thinking of the precious minutes flying by, she retraced her steps and finally reached the main level.
Only to see Royce Campbell, escorted by two armed guardsmen, disappearing into an official chamber.
But he knows I’m here, she thought, hoping for the best. He’ll come for me when he has the chance.
So, with nothing else to do, Selena returned to her suite.
A chambermaid was there, busily putting an assortment of unfamiliar dresses on hangers. They had been thrown onto the floor, over the backs of chairs, even on Selena’s bed.
“What are you doing?” Selena demanded. “Whose garments are these?”
“Why, they belong to my mistress, ma’am. She didn’t want to take them with her.”
“Your mistress? Take them with her where?”
“The Princess Francesca,” answered the girl nervously. “She bade me bring her clothes here and then selected some of them for her trip. She’s leaving for England, you know.”
Fires of Delight Page 27
