The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds

by Iris Johansen

“My nose turns up and my mouth is too big.”

  “Well, I think you’re pretty. You have exquisite skin and lovely brown eyes. You are such a big girl, Juliette.”

  “Almost seven.”

  “A great age.” The lady dabbed at Juliette’s lip with the handkerchief. “Your lip is bleeding. Did someone hurt you?”

  Juliette looked away. “No, I fell against the door.”

  “What door?”

  “I … don’t remember.” Juliette had learned a long time before that all bruises and cuts must be explained away in this fashion. Why was the lady so interested in her? In Juliette’s experience, adults accepted any untruth that made them most comfortable.

  “Never mind.” The lady held out her arms again. “Won’t you come out from behind the Wind Dancer and let me hold you? I like children. Nothing will happen to you, I promise.”

  The lady’s arms were as white and plump and well-formed as those on the statues of the goddesses in the garden, although they were not as beautiful as the golden wings of the Pegasus, Juliette thought. Suddenly, though, she was drawn to those open arms as she had been drawn to the statue the lady had called the Wind Dancer.

  She inched out of the shadows.

  “That’s right.” The lady drew Juliette into her embrace. The scent of violets, roses, and perfumed powder surrounded Juliette. Her mother sometimes smelled of violets, Juliette thought wistfully. If she closed her eyes, perhaps she could pretend this lady holding her with such tenderness was her mother. She would run away soon but it would do no harm to stay for just another moment.

  “What a sweet, shy child you are.”

  Juliette knew she was not a sweet child. Marguerite always called her an obstinate spawn of the devil. The lady would find out her mistake soon enough and push Juliette away. If her own mother considered her too wicked to be pleasing, she would not be able to deceive a stranger for any length of time.

  A mirrored door next to the statue was thrown open, and a burst of laughter and music entered the gallery along with a woman.

  “Your Majesty, we miss your lovely voice in our harmonies.”

  Her mother!

  Juliette stiffened and burrowed her head in the lady’s powdered shoulder.

  “In a moment, Celeste. We have a small problem here.”

  “May I help? What pro—Juliette!”

  “You know this child?” The lady stood up, still holding Juliette by the hand. “It seems she’s in great distress.”

  “Juliette is my daughter.” Celeste de Clement came forward, her exquisitely shaped mouth tight with displeasure. “Forgive her, Your Majesty, she’s not usually so naughty and uncontrolled. I’ll send for her nurse who must be searching the palace for her.”

  “I’ll go, Your Majesty.” The handsome man rose to his feet, smiled, bowed. “It’s my pleasure to serve you.” He paused. “Always.”

  “Thank you, Count Fersen.” A faint smile on her lips, the lady’s gaze followed him as he turned and strode down the hall. When he vanished from sight she looked again at Juliette. “I think we must find out why she’s so unhappy, Celeste. Why were you hiding, child?”

  Your Majesty. This lady was the queen? Juliette swallowed. “Marguerite said she was going to take away my paints.”

  Marie Antoinette looked down at her. “Paints?”

  Juliette held out her clay pot. “I have to have my paints. She cannot take them away.” Tears of helplessness and anger began to well in her eyes again. “I won’t let her do it. I’ll run away and hide them where she’ll never find them.”

  “Hush.” Her mother’s voice was harsh. “Have you not shamed me enough with your behavior?” She turned to the queen. “My father gave her an artist’s brush and that pot of red paint when we visited him in Andorra and the child does nothing but cover every scrap of parchment in our apartments with her daubs. I told Marguerite to take them away from her so she wouldn’t disfigure your beautiful walls.”

  “I’d never do that.” Juliette looked pleadingly at Marie Antoinette. “I want to paint splendid pictures. I wouldn’t waste my paint on your walls.”

  Marie Antoinette burst into laughter. “That relieves me exceedingly.”

  “She’s done nothing but wander about the palace, gazing at the paintings and sculptures, since we arrived here at Versailles a fortnight ago.” A veil of tears turned Celeste’s blue-violet eyes moistly brilliant. “I know she’s unruly, but since my dear Henri was taken from me I fear I’ve neglected her supervision. It’s not easy being a woman alone in the world.”

  The queen’s expression softened as she looked at Celeste. “I, too, am a woman who knows the trials of being a mother.” She reached out and took Celeste’s hand in both her own and raised it to her cheek. “We’ll have to endeavor to make things easier for you, my dear Celeste.”

  “Your Majesty is too kind.” Celeste smiled sweetly through her tears. “Indeed, it’s enough reward to be allowed to be close to you. After all, I’m not even of French birth. I’d heard Spaniards were not popular at Versailles, and I never imagined when I came to court that the honor of being near you would be accorded me.”

  How did her mother manage to keep the tears misting her eyes? Why did they not spill over and run down her cheeks? Juliette had noticed this many times before and it baffled her.

  “I was a foreigner also when I came here as a bride from Austria. Both you and I became French when we married.” Marie Antoinette pressed an affectionate kiss on Celeste’s palm. “It is but one more bond between us. Our court is infinitely richer for your enchanting presence, Celeste. We would have been devastated if you’d chosen to stay in that horrid château in Normandy.”

  The two women exchanged a glance of intimate understanding before the queen reluctantly released Celeste’s hand.

  “And now I think we must do something to dry your daughter’s tears.” She dropped to her knees again, grasped Juliette’s shoulders, staring at her with mock sternness. “I do think such a passionate love for beauty should be rewarded, but your mother is right. A paintbrush should be allowed in the hands of a child only under a careful eye. I shall have my friend, Elizabeth Vigée Le Brun, give you lessons. She’s a splendid artist and very kind as well.”

  Juliette gazed at the queen in disbelief. “I may keep my paint?”

  “Well, you could hardly create pictures without it. I’ll send you more paints and canvases and I’m sure someday you shall paint many splendid treasures for me.” The queen ruffled Juliette’s curls. “But you must meet one condition.”

  Disappointment made Juliette almost ill. It wasn’t going to happen. She should have known the queen was toying with her. Grown-ups seldom told the truth to children. Why should this lady be any different?

  “Don’t look so tragic.” Marie Antoinette chuckled. “I ask only that you promise to be my friend.”

  Juliette went still. “Your … friend?”

  “Is that so impossible a task?”

  “No!” Her heart was pounding so hard she could scarcely breathe. Paints, canvas, a friend. It was too much. For a brief moment she felt as if she were soaring up to the high-arched ceiling. Quickly she hurtled back to earth. “You probably won’t want to be my friend for long.”

  “Why not?”

  “I say things people don’t like.”

  “Why do you say things people don’t like when you know they’ll be upset with you?”

  “Because it’s stupid to tell lies.” Juliette met the queen’s gaze, and her voice held desperation as she continued. “But I’ll try to be whatever you want me to be. I’ll be so good, I promise.”

  “Shh, I have no desire for anything but your honesty.” The queen’s voice was suddenly weary. “There’s little enough of that commodity in Versailles.”

  “Ah, here’s Marguerite.” Celeste’s voice sounded relieved. But Juliette winced at the sight of the tall, black-gowned figure of Marguerite Duclos, escorted by the handsome man the queen had called Axel.


  Celeste took Juliette’s hand. “My dear child must be put to bed. I’m sure your kindness has excited her until it will be impossible for her to sleep. I shall return as quickly as possible, Your Majesty.”

  “Do hurry.” Marie Antoinette patted Juliette’s cheek but her gaze was already fixed dreamily on Axel. “I think we shall play a game of backgammon before we retire.”

  “An excellent idea.” Celeste pulled Juliette the few paces to where Marguerite waited at a respectful distance from the queen.

  Her mother was still angry, Juliette realized. Yet she was so full of joy, she could not worry. Paints, canvas, and a friend!

  “You incompetent fool,” Celeste whispered to Marguerite as she released Juliette into the nurse’s custody. “If you cannot raise my daughter to display some semblance of meekness and decorum, I shall send you back to Andorra and find someone who can do so.”

  Marguerite’s thin, sallow face flushed in distress. “I do my best. She’s not the sweet girl you were as a child,” she mumbled. “It was those paints. She was like a wild thing when I tried to take them away from her.”

  “Well, now you must let her keep them until the queen loses interest in her. If you’d done your duty well, I would not have been put to this embarrassment.”

  “The queen didn’t appear angry. I could not—”

  “I want no excuses. Punish the child,” Celeste ordered as she whirled on her heel in a fury of violet brocade. “And keep her away from the queen. It’s fortunate Count Fersen was here tonight to put Her Majesty in a felicitous mood. I’ll not have Juliette with her bold ways spoil my chances of becoming the queen’s favorite. I have enough to contend with. That mewling Princess de Lambelle preys on the queen’s sympathy at every turn.” She paused, glaring at Juliette. “You’re staring at me again. Why do you always stare at me?”

  Juliette averted her gaze. She had displeased her mother again. Usually that knowledge brought an aching sense of loss, but tonight the hurt was less. The queen had not found Juliette either ugly or displeasing.

  A brilliant smile lit Celeste’s exquisite face as she swept back down the hall toward the queen. “All is well, Your Majesty. How can I thank you for making my little girl so happy?”

  Marguerite propelled Juliette forward, her clasp cruelly tight. “Are you satisfied now, you imp from hell? Making your sweet mother unhappy and disturbing the queen of France.”

  “I didn’t disturb her. She liked me. She’s my friend.”

  “She’s not your friend. She’s the queen.”

  Juliette was silent, still in a warm, cozy haze of delight. No matter what Marguerite said, the queen was her friend. Hadn’t she held Juliette in her arms and dried her tears? Hadn’t she said she was pretty and sweet? Wasn’t she going to have her taught to paint beautiful pictures?

  “And do you think your mother will really let you have those nasty paints after you’ve been so naughty?” Marguerite’s lips tightened until they formed a thin line. “You don’t deserve gifts.”

  “She’ll let me have the paints whether I deserve them or not. She won’t want to displease the queen.” Juliette gave a hop and skip to keep up with Marguerite’s long stride as they moved quickly down the Hall of Mirrors. Juliette’s fascinated gaze clung to their images moving from one of the seventeen mirrors to the next as they walked along the gleaming hall. It surprised her to see how small and unimportant she looked. She certainly did not feel small inside now. She felt every bit as big and important as her mother and Marguerite. How unfair that the mirror did not reflect the change. Marguerite looked much more interesting, Juliette decided. Her black-gowned body was lean and angled like one of the stone gargoyles Juliette had seen on a column of the grand cathedral of Notre Dame. How fortunate she had felt when her mother had instructed the coachman to detour to the cathedral on his way through Paris to Versailles. Perhaps, she could persuade Madame Vigée Le Brun to show her how to paint Marguerite as a gargoyle.

  “Your arms are going to be black and blue for a fortnight,” Marguerite muttered with satisfaction. “I’ll show you that you can’t shame me in front of your mother.”

  Juliette looked down at the long, strong fingers of Marguerite’s hand holding her own and felt an instant of fear. She drew a deep breath and quickly suppressed the terror before it overcame her. The pain of the pinching would be over quickly, and all the time she was undergoing it she would be thinking of her paints and canvas and the lessons to come.

  But in her very first painting she would most definitely paint Marguerite as a gargoyle.

  Ile du Lion, France

  June 10, 1787

  Jean Marc Andreas strode around the pedestal, studying the statue from every angle. The jewel-encrusted Pegasus was superb.

  From its flying mane to the exquisite detail of the gold filigree clouds on which the horse danced, it was a masterful piece of work.

  “You’ve done well, Desedero,” Andreas said. “It’s perfect.”

  The sculptor whom some called a mere goldsmith shook his head. “You’re wrong, Monsieur. I’ve failed.”

  “Nonsense. This copy is identical to the Wind Dancer, is it not?”

  “It is as close a copy as could be made, even to the peculiar cut of the facets of the jewels,” Desedero said. “I had to journey to India to locate emeralds large and perfect enough to use as the eyes of the Wind Dancer and spent over a year crafting the body of the statue.”

  “And the inscription engraved on the base?”

  Desedero shrugged. “I reproduced the markings with great precision, but since the script is indecipherable that is a minor point, I believe.”

  “Nothing is minor. My father knows the Wind Dancer in its every detail,” Andreas said dryly. “I paid you four million livres to duplicate the Wind Dancer—and I always get my money’s worth.”

  Desedero knew those words to be true. Jean Marc Andreas was a young man, no more than twenty and five, but he had established himself as a formidable force in the world of finance since taking over the reins of the Andreas shipping and banking empire three years before from his ailing father. He was reputed to be both brilliant and ruthless. Desedero had found him exceptionally demanding, yet he did not resent Andreas. Perhaps it was because the young man’s commission challenged the artist in him. Certainly Andreas’s desperation to please his father was touching. Desedero had loved his own father very much and understood such deep and profound affection. He was much impressed by Jean Marc Andreas’s wholehearted zeal for replicating the Wind Dancer to please his ill and aging father.

  “I regret to say I do not believe you have gotten your money’s worth this time, Monsieur Andreas.”

  “Don’t say such a thing, sir.” A muscle jerked in Andreas’s jaw. “You have succeeded. We’ve succeeded. My father will never know the difference between this Wind Dancer and the one at Versailles.”

  Desedero shook his head. “Tell me, have you ever seen the real Wind Dancer?”

  “No, I’ve never visited Versailles.”

  Desedero’s gaze returned to the statue on the pedestal. “I remember vividly the first time I saw it some forty-two years ago. I was only a lad of ten and my father took me to Versailles to see the treasures that were dazzling the world. I saw the Hall of Mirrors.” He paused. “And I saw the Wind Dancer. What an experience. When you walked into my studio some year and a half ago with your offer of a commission to create a copy of the Wind Dancer, I could not pass it by. To replicate the Wind Dancer would have been sublime.”

  “And you’ve done it.”

  “You don’t understand. Had you ever seen the original, you would know the difference instantly. The Wind Dancer has …” He searched for a word. “Presence. One cannot look away from it. It captures, it holds”—he smiled crookedly—“as it’s held me for these forty-two years.”

  “And my father,” Andreas whispered. “He saw it once as a young man and has wanted it ever since.” He turned away. “And by God, he’ll have it. She took
everything from him—but he shall have the Wind Dancer.”

  Desedero discreetly ignored the last remark, though he was well aware of the lady to whom Andreas referred. Charlotte, Denis Andreas’s wife, Jean Marc’s stepmother, had been dead over five years. Still the stories of her greed and treachery were much passed about.

  Sighing, Desedero shook his head. “You have only a copy of the Wind Dancer to give to your father.”

  “There’s no difference.” A hint of desperation colored Andreas’s voice. “My father will never see the two statues side by side. He’ll think he has the Wind Dancer until the day he—” He broke off, his lips suddenly pinched.

  “Your father is worse?” Desedero asked gently.

  “Yes, the physicians think he has no more than six months to live. He’s begun to cough blood.” He tried to smile. “So it’s fortunate you have finished the statue and could bring it now to the Ile du Lion. Yes?”

  Desedero had an impulse to reach out and touch him in comfort, but he knew Andreas was not a man who could accept such a gesture, so he merely said, “Very fortunate.”

  “Sit down.” Andreas picked up the statue and started toward the door of the salon. “I’ll take this to my father in his study. That’s where he keeps all the things he treasures most. Then I’ll return and tell you how wrong you were about your work.”

  “I hope I’m wrong,” Desedero said with a shrug. “Perhaps only the eye of an artist can perceive the difference.” He sat down in the straight chair his patron had indicated and stretched out his short legs. “Don’t hurry, Monsieur. You have many beautiful objects here for me to study. Is that a Botticelli on the far wall?”

  “Yes. My father purchased it several years ago. He much admires the Italian masters.” Andreas moved toward the door, carefully cradling the statue in his arms. “I’ll send a servant with wine, Signor Desedero.”

  The door closed behind him and Desedero leaned back in his chair, gazing blindly at the Botticelli. Perhaps the old man was too ill to detect the fraud being thrust upon him. Whole and well, he would have seen it instantly, Desedero realized, because everything in this house revealed Denis Andreas’s exquisite sensitivity and love of beauty. Such a man would have been as helplessly entranced with the Wind Dancer as Desedero always had been. Sometimes his own memories of his first visit to Versailles were bathed in mist from which only the Wind Dancer emerged clearly.