by Jean Plaidy
Sophia’s mother, the ex-Queen of Bohemia, had stayed at Breda; so had Charles Prince of Wales who had now returned to England where, he had said, he was greeted so warmly that it must have been his own fault that he had stayed away so long.
Through the streets the carriages of the once-great or near-great rattled; ladies dressed in the latest French fashions acknowledged the greetings of gallant gentlemen as their carriages passed along. Every day seemed to be the occasion for some brilliant ball or masquerade. The people of Breda were proud of their foreign population which had brought such prosperity to the town.
George William was welcomed. He was no exile but came purely for pleasure; his servants found a worthy lodging for him and in the first few days he received a message from the Princesse de Tarente inviting him to a ball.
George William was delighted. Breda soothed him; here was grace and charm which might have come straight from Versailles. It was different from Venice. The climate was not so clement; the romantic canals and the delight of a masque which ended in St. Mark’s Square was missing; but there was an excitement about Breda which Venice lacked; and he felt his spirits rising. As his servants dressed him for the ball he knew that he had been wise to hand over everything to Ernest Augustus. Freedom was worth anything.
It was a splendid ball and he was received effusively by the Princess.
‘My dear, dear Duke!’ she cried, holding out both hands to welcome him. ‘What a pleasure this is! We are almost related now. You were indeed a wicked one to refuse my niece. You look astonished. Did you not know that the Duchess Sophia is my niece?’
‘It is impossible. I had thought you might be sisters.’
‘Now you would flatter me. Or has marriage aged dear Sophia so much? I hear she has two splendid boys! How happy the dear Bishop must be! And you … oh no, you are a born bachelor and still determined to remain one. I hope you are not contemplating a short stay in Breda. We are two Germans, remember. After all, I am only French by marriage. But you will meet some delightful people … delightful …’
She was ready to greet the next guest and he passed on. Such enchanting women! He danced; he flattered; and it was like a hundred other balls he had attended until he found Eléonore.
She was tall and her dark hair, which was very abundant, was piled high on her head, although one curl was allowed to fall over her shoulder; she had a dazzling complexion and sparkling dark eyes; and George was struck by her air of dignity, which was rare in one so young, and of modesty which was even more rare.
She spoke German as a foreigner speaks it and he knew from her accent that she was French.
The Princess had presented him to her.
‘Take care of my little demoiselle d’honneur,’ she said, ‘and she will see that you are well cared for as it is your first visit to us and we want it to be the forerunner of many.’
Perhaps she was being a little mischievous. Perhaps she was thinking of his reputation for indulging in amorous intrigue, and Eléonore’s for virtue; but she as well as these two were astonished at what happened that night.
They danced together and they talked. Those who knew George William well would have been surprised, for his manner had changed. Into his voice there had come a gentleness which had never been there before. There was a complete absense of innuendo in his remarks; he was not planning the quickest route to the desired goal. Not that she did not delight him; she did, as he had never been so enchanted; but from the first moment of their meeting this was an adventure such as he had never indulged in before. He took her to an alcove lightly secluded by foliage where he said they could talk in comfort. He wanted to know why she was in Breda, how long she had been there, how long she intended to remain, what had brought her there.
‘I was at the Court of France,’ she said, ‘but we are Hugue nots.’
‘Exiled then?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘And you long to return?’
‘Not as things are. It would not be wise.’
‘So you live here in the Princess’s household.’
‘She has been so good to us.’
‘To you … and others?’
‘To my family. My father and my sister Angelique.’
‘They should have called you Angelique,’ he told her. ‘It would have suited you. Though I prefer your name. But perhaps any name which was yours would become beautiful simply for that reason.’
‘You like to pay compliments.’
‘And you to receive – although I know you must grow weary of them.’
‘I like best the truth,’ she said.
‘Perhaps I may meet your father and sister.’
‘I am sure they would be delighted. My father is Alexandre d’Esmiers, Marquis d’Olbreuse.’
‘Do you think he would be pleased to receive me?’
‘He is always delighted to receive friends of the Princesse de Tarente. She has been so good to us. To have many friends helps to soothe the … mal du pays.’
‘And you suffer from that?’
‘A little. Though perhaps not so much as my father. It is easier to leave your home when you are young. I think he often dreams of Poitou. He would love to go back. But how can he? His estates were confiscated after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes when Huguenots were persecuted by the Government.’
‘That must have been sad for your family – but I can only be glad because it has brought you here.’
She was quite enchanting, and after the first shock of being with the most beautiful and attractive young woman he had ever met he began to wonder how soon he could make her his mistress.
He was too experienced to make a false step; he knew very well that he would have to be patient. He was prepared for a little delay, but because of that, the culmination would seem all the more worthwhile when it was reached.
He went warily through the evening – yet as though in a dream. And when he said farewell to the Princess he had made no assignation with her charming demoiselle d’honneur, not being sure how this should be done.
‘I trust,’ said the Princess, a little slyly, ‘that Mademoiselle d’Olbreuse looked after you?’
‘Admirably,’ he answered.
‘I am so pleased. You look as though you have really enjoyed my little ball.’
‘So much,’ he answered fervently. ‘As I never have enjoyed a ball before.’
She laughed and tapped him with her fan. ‘I am delighted. Then my little Mademoiselle did her duty. She is such a good and virtuous girl. I knew I could trust you with her … and her with you.’
Two days later he presented himself at the Princess’s house and begged for an audience with her.
Once more he was received graciously. He looked about him for a sign of Eléonore. There was none.
‘You are contented in Breda?’ asked the Princess.
‘I am not sure. It has occurred to me that I should not give myself entirely to pleasure while I am here.’
The Princess raised her eyebrows and asked what he had in mind.
‘My education in languages has been rather neglected, I fear. I have been thinking that while I am staying here it might be a good opportunity to remedy that in some way.’
‘Oh? What language did you wish to learn?’
‘French. I was wondering if you could suggest a teacher.’
‘I doubt not I could find you one. Some old nobleman – an exile from France, very short of money – might be glad to earn a little.’
‘You have many French friends with you here in Breda.’
She studied him archly. ‘As you discovered when you last visited us.’
‘Yes. There was one young French woman …’
‘Ah, Mademoiselle d’Olbreuse. What an excellent idea! Her father might help you. Oh, I am not sure. They are a very proud family. You have no idea how proud some of these exiles can be. Pride seems to grow out of poverty.’
‘To show it perhaps is their only way of reminding others o
f their past splendours.’
‘I am sure you are right. I do not think the Marquis would care to become a teacher of French. I believe I know an old professor …’
‘Well, I fear I should not wish to be so serious as that. He would put me through lessons which I should find beyond my powers of concentration.’
‘But my dear friend, you will have to concentrate if you wish to learn a language.’
‘I meant rather to learn through conversation … light, amusing conversation.’
‘Such as you might exchange with a young lady?’
‘Exactly.’
‘With say … Mademoiselle d’Olbreuse?’
‘That is what I mean.’
She laughed and nodded. ‘Well, I could ask Eléonore how she would feel about giving you such lessons. Shall I do so?’
‘I would deem it a great favour if you did.’
‘It would please me to please you,’ she aswered. ‘After all we are connected by marriage now. But I must warn you, cousin. Are you my cousin? Let us pretend so. It is such a pleasant, cosy relationship. I must warn you that it could only be Mademoiselle d’Olbreuse teaching you the French language. You would not be expected, however tempted, to teach her anything.’
She laughed and went on. ‘She is an enchanting creature, I grant you. She is the loveliest girl I have ever seen. Do you agree with me?’
He nodded seriously.
‘Consider, cousin. She will never be your mistress. Would it not be better at this stage to turn your attention towards an easier conquest? I would not have your stay in Breda clouded in any way.’
‘You are very kind.’
‘Well, we are … cousins, and I want to help you.’
‘So you will ask this lady if she will consent to instruct me in the French language?’
‘If you are still sure that you want to learn it?’
‘I was never more sure of anything in my life,’ he answered.
‘Then, I shall ask her.’
When he had left she was thoughtful for a while. He was a handsome fellow and well-versed in the arts of seduction. It would be interesting to see what happened now. How would he tilt against Eléonore’s impregnable virtue. She could not for the life of her guess how this would end.
The Princesse de Tarente obligingly lent them a room. Eléonore sat on one side of the table, he on the other; he watched her gesticulating hands; he listened to her fluting voice.
‘French is surely the most charming language in the world,’ he said. ‘When spoken by you,’ he added. ‘My attempts seem to provoke only merriment.’
They were amusing lessons. He told her that he had never before enjoyed learning. How different it would have been had she taught him in his youth; he might have become a scholar. In spite of this, she pointed out, he was not making much progress with his French.
Every time he left that room he marvelled at himself. This was not the manner in which he usually conducted his love affairs; he was like a naïve schoolboy. Two weeks had passed and he was still taking his French lessons and she was no nearer becoming his mistress than she had been on that first evening at the ball.
But she was not indifferent to him. Behind her dignity there was a warmth of … friendship? She was pleased to see him; she admitted that she enjoyed teaching as much as he enjoyed learning. It was a profit to them both, she pointed out; a mutual advantage; for while he progressed a very little with the French language, she was augmenting her German.
The inevitable happened when he conjugated the verb to love.
‘Je vous aime,’ he told her; and she pretended to believe that was part of the lesson.
‘That is correct,’ she told him.
‘Correct and inevitable,’ he said. ‘From the moment we met I knew meeting you was the most important thing that had ever happened to me.’
He had seized her hands across the table but she was smiling at him calmly.
‘I do not expect you to love me as deeply, as devotedly as I love you … yet,’ he rushed on. ‘But I must have the opportunity of showing you … of …’
Her eyes were puzzled. ‘The Princess tells me that you are in no position to make such a declaration,’ she said.
‘You will come back to Germany with me. We will live there together for the rest of our lives … but not all the time of course. We will travel … see the world. I will take you to Italy, to England …’
‘But how would that be possible?’ she asked.
‘How? We will just go. That is how.’
‘Then is it not true that you have taken an oath to your brother never to marry?’
‘To marry …’ he stammered.
She smiled coolly. ‘I see that marriage had not entered your mind.’ She rose. ‘The lesson is over. I think, do you not, that in the circumstances there should be no more.’
He was on his feet and at her side.
‘Eléonore …’ He tried to embrace her but she held him off.
‘I do not think you understand,’ she said. ‘We are poor … we are exiles … but my family would never allow me to enter into such a relationship as you are suggesting. Goodbye, my lord Duke, I am sorry you did not explain sooner.’
With that she left him. He stood staring after her – bemused, frustrated and desperately unhappy.
‘What can I do?’ he asked the Princess.
She put her head on one side and regarded him affectionately. So handsome. Such an accomplished lover. Well, this time he had indeed met his match.
‘These French nobles … they are so proud,’ she reminded him.
‘I understand that. I would not have her other than she is … but what can I do?’
‘You might offer settlements. They are very poor. The father’s prospects are alarming … unless one of his daughters – or both of them – make wealthy marriages.’
‘If it is a matter of money …’
‘Compared with them, my dear lord Duke, you are very wealthy and you would give a great deal to win my dear little Eléonore. But it may be that money is not enough. But we can try.’
‘You will talk to her?’
‘I would do a great deal to make you happy,’ she answered.
The Marquis d’Olbreuse smiled at his beautiful daughter.
‘It is for you to decide, my child,’ he said.
‘But how could I accept such … dishonour. Have you not always said that our pride is all that is left to us now?’
‘I have and I mean it. But it is not easy to make a good marriage when there is no dowry. I have nothing to offer you … neither you nor Angelique. How different it would be if we had not been driven from our home!’
‘You are not suggesting that I should accept him?’
‘I would not suggest that you did anything you do not want to do.’
‘But father, he is asking me to become his mistress!’
‘It is true. But he has talked of settlements … and a man does not usually offer that to a casual mistress. I believe if it were possible, he would marry you.’
‘But, mon père, it is not possible.’
Angelique had come into the room. She was a very pretty girl but lacked Eléonore’s outstanding beauty.
The Marquis looked from one to another of his daughters and sighed.
Two lovely girls and he had not the means to set them up in life. That, he believed, was his greatest tragedy of all. Life did not become easier as the years passed. He visualized an old age of poverty, of living on the bounty of others. It was not a pleasant vista for a proud old man.
And if Eléonore accepted the offer of the Duke of Brunswick-Lüneberg? He was rich; he was a Prince – albeit a German one of a small principality. He was not the head of his house because he had an elder brother living and had signed away his own rights – but …
Even so, he would not persuade her that here was a chance to make her family’s future secure. In France a Prince’s mistress was a power in the land – often more so than his wife.
Eléonore was French enough, proud enough, beautiful and intelligent enough, to play the rôle made famous by so many women of her own country. In her small way she might become a Diane de Poitiers. Little pride was lost and honours were gained in such a role.
But the man was a German, of course; and they had not the same refinements of taste as the French nor the same ideas of gallantry.
It must be for her to choose. But if she accepted, if she played her rôle as he was sure it could be played, what good she could bring to her family!
Eléonore, who knew him so well, guessed the thoughts which were passing through his mind. She was a little shocked; and yet she understood so well.
When she retired to her room Angelique followed her there.
‘You are the talk of Breda,’ said Angelique. ‘How I envy you!’
‘Then you are foolish. My position is far from enviable.’
‘They say that Duke George William is madly in love with you. I think he is most attractive. I don’t know how you can refuse him.’
‘Then it is a pity he does not transfer his affections to you.’
‘Now Eléonore, don’t be touchy. Mon dieu! So it is true then?’
‘What?’
‘You’re in love with him.’
Eléonore turned away angrily.
Was she? She was not sure. But Angelique had noticed something in her demeanour, some change.
If he despaired and went away, she would be quite desolate. Was that being in love?
If he had offered marriage how joyfully she would have accepted. But how could the proud daughter of a proud house agree to become a mistress?
The Princesse de Tarente watched the lovers with interest. So charming she said, in a blasé world. She was certain that in time Eléonore would relent.
She told George William so and that if he offered a morganatic marriage it might help to persuade Eléonore.
‘Alas, she has had a strict upbringing and it has always been impressed on her that she must never live with any man without marriage.’
‘I have been a fool,’ cried George William. ‘If I had not made the contract with my brother how happily would I marry her. Nothing but my declaration of renunciation holds me back. I know that I want to live with Eléonore for the rest of my life, and I shall never want any other woman. She will be sufficient to me. My dear Princess, I cannot describe to you how much I have changed. I am a different man. Had I known it was possible to feel this passion, this tenderness, this desire for a tranquil life with one woman I should never have been such a fool as to sign that contract. I know now why I refused Sophia. I must have been secretly conscious that Eléonore was waiting for me.’
