Hélène, Abbess de Noirvaux
To say that I was delighted with that letter would fall short of describing my feelings. I was impatient to meet Madame de Montserrat and decided to avail myself of her offer as soon as my Paris engagements slowed with the advent of the summer.
25
The Chevalier des Huttes called a few days after our return from Versailles. The Duchess had gone out to visit her daughter and Aimée was napping. He was clearly embarrassed.
“You seem to have heard of my debut at Court,” I said, smiling. “Please rest easy. My vanity has already recovered.”
“It was my fault.” The Chevalier bit his lip. “I should have warned you of what to expect. It grieves me to think that, though the Queen is goodness itself, she does not know how to show it. There is not a kinder, more amiable person within her private circle.”
“I am sure that you are right. You have known her for many years. I just have the misfortune to be outside her private circle. Please do not worry about me.”
“How can I help it? I feel a great deal of responsibility towards you, My Lady. I was the one who brought you here, leading you to expect things that may never happen.”
“You are too harsh on yourself, dear Chevalier. You did not promise anything except to deliver me safely to the Duchess’s house.” I looked out the window. “Did you know that I wrote Madame de Montserrat and that she responded? She invited me to Noirvaux for a retreat.”
“I am glad to hear it, My Lady, and will be happy to take you there whenever you wish.”
“You are very kind, as usual. In your opinion, Sir, would the Marquis think less ill of me if he knew that I intend to go visit our sister? Do you think he will ever forgive me for moving to Paris?”
“I do not believe that he has forgiven either of us. Yet, My Lady, he may be mollified if he hears that you are going to Noirvaux, even for a short visit.”
The Chevalier looked at me gravely. “He has his fair share of worries these days: the situation in Auvergne is less peaceful than it used to be. You have, of course, heard of the new municipal assemblies that will now govern all the parishes. The Marquis presides over that of Lavigerie, as is his right as the titular lord of the town. But then Jean-Baptiste Coffinhal, his former attorney, who is now the main landowner there, had the insolence to refuse to let the Marquis participate in the deliberations, allegedly because he can only represent the interests of the nobility and not those of the commoners! What an outrage!” The Chevalier shook his head sadly. “I could have imagined such insult from the younger Coffinhal, but I expected better from his elder brother.”
I could not hear Pierre-André’s name without a pang. It seemed that his whole family had now espoused his quarrel with my brother. I knew that my former suitor lived in Paris and often wondered whether he was aware of my presence in town. I never passed the massive towers of the Grand Châtelet, half a mile from the Duchess’s mansion, without thinking of him. I pictured him in one of the courtrooms at that very moment.
It would have been easy to discover his whereabouts. Many times I was tempted to call on him. I was always stopped by the fear of finding him resentful, hostile, contemptuous or, worse, indifferent. I did not want to hear him say that he no longer cared for me, to face the pain, the humiliation of having him turn me out of his chambers.
Also, since I intend to tell the plain truth in these memoirs, I will not deny that, since we had last met, I had absorbed some of the prejudices of my class. I was a Baroness, albeit a penniless one. I associated only with aristocrats. Not all were wealthy, but all lived in a world of luxury, of idleness, of parties, of pleasure, which was becoming mine. A liaison between a commoner and a noblewoman, a notion that had seemed completely natural to me at fifteen, would have been very odd to them. It had not even entered the Chevalier’s mind, when he had brought me to Paris, that I might be tempted to renew with my former suitor.
There may have been still another, maybe more compelling reason: my remembrance of Pierre-André was associated with the season of my life when I had been forced to forsake him and all of my hopes. It would have been unbearable to bring back the anguish of my engagement to a man I had loathed, of those terrible first weeks of my marriage. Time had passed, but the pain of those memories was as fresh as ever.
Whatever the reason, I did not avail myself of the opportunity I now had to meet Pierre-André Coffinhal, when only a few years earlier I would have bartered my soul to run away with him.
26
Not many weeks elapsed before the Viscount de Rivière, one of the Duchess’s friends, began to show a lively interest in me.
“Everybody is talking of the opera Tarare, which is to open on the 8th,” he said. “Salieri has composed it in an entirely novel style. I would be delighted if Your Ladyship allowed me to offer you my box at the Opera for that occasion. I would be honoured to accompany you, and the Duchess, of course.”
On the appointed evening, he sent word, with his deepest apologies and regrets, that he was detained in Versailles at the last minute by his duties. The Duchess and I went to the Opera by ourselves in her carriage. I was in a flutter of excitement as we settled in our box, for I had never witnessed such an entertainment before. The air carried the scent of natural flowers and heady perfumes. The din of the conversations from the audience mingled with the sound of the violins being tuned in the orchestra pit. I eagerly looked at the embroidered gowns of the other ladies, hoping that my own attire, a plain white satin dress, was not inadequate for the occasion. I was not wearing any jewellery except for my ruby earrings and wedding band. A few white roses were my sole hair ornament. I noticed two ladies, both glittering with diamonds, taking their seats in a neighbouring box. They were attended by three gentlemen.
All three soon joined us. The Duchess curtseyed to the largest, whose face was covered with red blotches, pustules and pimples. Otherwise he looked very much, in features and corpulence, like the King. I was introduced. He was His Highness the Duke d’Orléans, cousin to His Majesty, recently returned from England. The second man was the famous Duke de Lauzun, about forty years of age, uncommonly handsome and well aware of it. The third one was the Count de Villers. His hair, like that of his companions, was powdered white but his eyebrows were blonde, with a reddish tinge, and pale freckles covered the bridge of his nose and his upper lip. I had never seen such colouring in Auvergne. Another detail surprised me about his person: he was wearing large gold earrings. At the time, noblemen had stopped fancying those ornaments, which tended to be favoured only by the lower classes, in particular sailors and soldiers.
The three visitors sat with us and conversed in a friendly manner with the Duchess, all the time openly eyeing me. I could see the two ladies left behind in the other box also staring at me through their opera glasses. The men did not leave until well after the overture started, which somewhat spoiled my enjoyment of the first act.
“Do you know them well?” I whispered to the Duchess’s ear.
“Quite well, dear Belle, but they would never have come here tripping over each other if it were not for your presence. They are not interested in a wizened old woman like me. It is you they have in mind.”
“Who are the two ladies in that box? Are they married to these gentlemen?”
The Duchess tapped my wrist with her fan. “You are so funny, dear. Her Highness the Duchess d’Orléans is never seen with her husband, except on state occasions. As to the Duke and Duchess de Lauzun, they have been separated almost as long as they have been married. He squandered his fortune, which was colossal, and part of hers too, on women, gambling and race horses. He is now waiting to inherit a fresh one from his uncle the Duke de Biron. I told you of Lauzun already: in addition to winning the favour of the Queen, he was one of the heroes of the Battle of Yorktown during the American independence war. The English forces led by Colonel Tarleton insisted on surrendering to the French Duke, as they called him, and his dashing hussars, rather than to the bedraggl
ed American army. As a reward for his exceptional bravery under fire, Lauzun was chosen to bring the news of the victory to Paris.”
The Duchess grinned. “He took advantage of his return here to bed Mrs. Robinson, one of the Prince of Wales’s mistresses, thus inflicting a second defeat of sorts on the British. You should know that Lauzun is a regular Don Juan and does not shy away from cuckolding royalty. They say that no woman has ever resisted him. Beware of him, dear Belle, for I am sure that he must be already thinking of adding you to his tableau de chasse. He is not discreet either: the entire town knows of his victory the day after he storms the castle. Yet his lack of tact does not seem to impede his further success. Listen to me, a spiteful old woman, for if he showed any interest in me, I would be sure to have him on the spot.”
A female singer had reached the end of an aria.
“So, Madam,” I asked, “who are the ladies in that box?”
“They are both mistresses to the Duke d’Orléans, dear. The one who is not so young anymore, with the stork’s neck, is a Scotswoman, Lady Elliott. He brought her back from England. She has a daughter by the Prince of Wales, but she left the little bastard child behind in that country. She did not wish to encumber herself with that kind of baggage, I suppose. The Duke d’Orléans seems to have grown tired of her. He is now seen quite often with the other lady, the Countess de Buffon, who is much fresher. She cannot be more than a few years older than you. Yet from the way he was looking at you, I am sure he would not mind neglecting either or both of these women if you gave him the slightest encouragement.”
I winced. “I do not think, Madam, that I ever beheld anyone so repulsive. These ladies must not be very fastidious in their tastes.”
“Well, the Duke d’Orléans is a prince of the royal blood and, after the King, the richest man in the kingdom, with a yearly income of six million. We drove past his palace in town, the Palais-Royal. He had several levels of shops built around his gardens. Because the place belongs to a member of the royal family, it is exempt from the surveillance of the police. So his tenants comprise gaming parlours, print shops that specialize in seditious or lewd literature, and of course the most luxurious houses of convenience in Paris.”
“I cannot understand why anyone so rich would want to derive part of his income from such trades. What about the third man?”
“Villers? He is not as handsome as Lauzun, nor is he as rich as the Duke d’Orléans, but he owns a good part of Normandy and is very mindful of his money. He can act a bit wild once in a while, but never loses his head. There was talk of him being on friendly terms with my daughter last year, but he seems to have offended her by paying much attention to a visiting English lady. I make it a rule, however, never to espouse my children’s quarrels.”
“Is he married too?”
“He has been widowed as long as I can remember and seems content with his situation. He is a libertine, like his friends. They are after the same thing, all three of them. Believe me, dear, it is not your hand in marriage.”
My attention returned to the opera. I found it fascinating once I became accustomed to the oddity of seeing people walking onto the stage and singing instead of behaving like sensible human beings. The end of the first act brought back the three gentlemen. The ladies, again abandoned, were whispering to each other while looking at me in a rather pointed manner. The Duke d’Orléans placed himself to my right, which made me uneasy. I could not help wondering whether his skin condition was infectious. The Duchess kindly moved away to leave empty the seat to my left. Lauzun and Villers jostled to occupy it.
“Give way to superior rank,” said Lauzun.
“Who cares about rank?” replied Villers. “You may be a Brigadier General, but I am not in the service anymore. The Baroness has no use for a beggar like you.” He turned to me. “Your Ladyship should tell him to return to my box and to attend to the other ladies.”
I smiled. “I would not presume to do so. Why, Sir, do you not settle this dispute by the toss of a coin?”
It was meant in jest, but Villers reached into his waistcoat pocket. He won. Lauzun complained of foul play.
“You are whining, Lauzun,” said the prince. “What a pitiful idea the poor Baroness must have of you.”
“Quite,” said Villers. “Your Highness is right, as usual.”
He sat next to me with a satisfied look. “What do you think of tonight’s entertainment, My Lady?”
“This is the first time I have the pleasure to watch an opera, Sir. I am delighted with it.”
“An ingénue and a dowager, all in one. And musical too. Quite unusual, I dare say.”
“Yes, I do love music and hope to hear more of it now that I live in Paris.”
“Then my box will always be at your service and that of Her Grace. But I will be sure not to invite Lauzun. I am ashamed of his manners.”
I smiled. “You need not worry, Sir. I do not know either of you well enough to distinguish between your manners and those of your friend.”
Villers turned to Lauzun, who had taken a seat behind me. “Did you hear? Now, in the eyes of the Baroness, I am tainted by association. I would be honoured if Your Ladyship, with the Duchess, of course, could join us for supper later tonight at my house.”
“You are very kind, Sir, but Her Grace was telling me not long ago that she feels rather tired.”
“I am sorry to hear it. I will call on her tomorrow then, with her permission.”
The Duchess could not repress a smile.
27
The next morning, the Duchess and I rose later than usual and chatted about the opera over a breakfast of tea and croissants. That delicacy had been introduced to France by the Queen upon her arrival from Vienna. We had settled with our reading in the drawing room when the Count de Villers was announced by one of the footmen. After the usual exchange of bows, curtseys and compliments, the conversation turned to one of the Duchess’s acquaintances.
“Did you know, Villers,” she said, “that the Viscount de Dorval just purchased an estate fifty leagues from Paris, and that he intends to take his wife there? He wants to keep her away from what he calls the corrupt morals of this town! The poor thing visited us yesterday and was inconsolable at the idea of being buried alive in some provincial château.”
“Madame de Dorval is a lady of unimpeachable virtue,” said Villers, “who never did anything to justify such severity. Did I tell Your Grace about an innocent trick Lauzun and I played on Dorval a few years ago, before he married Mademoiselle de Moret, as she was then called, and her 60,000 francs a year?”
“I remember hearing about it, but you must regale me with the full tale.”
“Dorval had been engaged for a few months and his absurd jealousy was already the sport of the entire Court and town. Lauzun and I could not resist the temptation to have some fun at his expense. Since my ears are pierced and I am more slender than my friend, we agreed that I should be the one to play the female character in this prank. We shaved the three hairs on my chest, for, although they were blonde, they would have detracted from my ladylike appearance. The good Madame de Croisy, after being taken into our confidence, had the kindness to lend me a fine pair of diamond earrings and one of her Court dresses, one foot too short for me and quite suitable to make me look like a fool. I was duly coiffed and rouged by one of her chambermaids.”
His eyes sparkled. “Thus beautified, I sailed forth into the kitchens of Marly. The Court still went there at the time. I proceeded to kiss everyone, down to the lowest rag washer, on the mouth, act in the most immodest manner and generally make an ass of myself. Lauzun, meanwhile, ran to Dorval to warn him that Mademoiselle de Moret was committing a thousand follies in the kitchens and was believed to be at the very moment in the passionate embraces of a scullion. You know that Dorval, as Equerry to the King, is in charge of the stables. In his fury, he went there forthwith, ordered all of the grooms to fetch their whips for a punitive expedition and placed himself at their head to storm
the kitchens. A regular battle took place between the stable boys and the cooks, the outcome of which was very much to the disadvantage of the kitchen. I watched the engagement from the safety of a cupboard but was unfortunately prevented, conspicuous as I was, from leaving the field on the heels of the victors. That almost cost me dearly. The cooks, once aware of my disguise and the part I had played in their defeat, chased me around a table with their knives, threatening to perform a certain operation on me. I was unarmed, outnumbered and impeded in my flight by my paniers.”
He chuckled. “Lauzun had arrived with Dorval’s troops to watch the commotion. He howled with laughter at my plight instead of coming to my rescue. I reached him and was able to draw his sword to keep the rabble at bay. The King’s dinner was somewhat in disarray that day, but when His Majesty was told of the reason, he found it an excellent joke, although, as you know, he is exceedingly fond of his food. It would have been a pity to send Lauzun or me to the Bastille for such a trifle. We were young and thoughtless then.”
The Duchess was laughing aloud. Torn between amusement and indignation, I dared not look at Villers.
“What about Dorval?” asked the Duchess, tears of merriment still in her eyes. “Did he also find it an excellent joke?”
“Your Grace knows him. He can be tiresome about questions of honour. He demanded reparation and I had to meet him the next morning at dawn in the Bois de Boulogne. I gave him a flesh wound in the arm, after which he declared himself satisfied.”
I felt Villers turning to me. “You do not seem amused, My Lady,” he remarked.
I looked at him. “If I had been Mademoiselle de Moret,” I said, “I would not have liked to have my name bandied in such a manner. In my opinion it was you, Sir, and the Duke de Lauzun, not the kitchen boys, who deserved to be whipped.”
Mistress of the Revolution: A Novel Page 16
