The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds

by Iris Johansen

  He hoped for Jean Marc Andreas’s sake that his father’s memories had dimmed along with his sight.

  Jean Marc opened the door of the library, and beauty and serenity flowed over him. This room was both haven and treasure house for his father. A fine Savonnerie carpet in delicate shades of rose, ivory, and beige stretched across the highly polished parquet floor, and a Gobelin tapestry depicting the four seasons covered one wall. Splendid furniture crafted by Jacobs and Boulard was placed for beauty—and comfort—in the room. A fragile crystal swan rested on a cupboard of rosewood and Chinese lacquer marquetry. The desk, wrought in mahogany, ebony, and gilded bronze with mother-of-pearl inserts, might have been the focal point of the room if it had not been for the portrait of Charlotte Andreas. It was dramatically framed and placed over a fireplace whose mantel of Pyrenees marble drew the eye.

  Denis Andreas always complained of the cold these days and, although it was the end of June, a fire burned in the hearth. He sat in a huge crimson brocade-cushioned armchair, reading before the fire, his slippered feet resting on a matching footstool.

  Jean Marc braced himself, then stepped into the room and closed the door. “I’ve brought you a gift.”

  His father looked up with a smile that froze on his lips as he looked at the statue in Jean Marc’s arms. “I see you have.”

  Jean Marc strode over to the table beside his father’s chair and set the statue carefully on the malachite surface. He could feel tension coiling painfully in his every muscle as his father gazed at the Pegasus. He forced a smile. “Well, do say something, sir. Aren’t you pleased with me? It was far from easy to persuade King Louis to part with the statue. Bardot has virtually lived at court this past year waiting for the opportunity to pounce.”

  “You must have paid a good deal for it.” Denis Andreas reached out and touched a filigree wing with a gentle finger.

  His father’s hands had always been delicate-looking, the hands of an artist, Jean Marc thought. But now they were nearly transparent, the protruding veins poignantly emphasizing their frailty. He quickly looked from those scrawny hands to his father’s face. His face was also thin, the cheeks hollowed, but his eyes still held the gentleness and wonder they always had.

  “I paid no more than we could afford.” Jean Marc sat down on the chair across from his father. “And Louis needed the livres to pay the American war debt.” At least, that was true enough. Louis’s aid to the American revolutionaries along with his other extravagant expenditures had set France tottering on the edge of bankruptcy. “Where should we put it? I thought a white Carrara marble pedestal by the window. The sunlight shining on the gold and emeralds would make it come alive.”

  “The Wind Dancer is alive,” his father said gently. “All beauty lives, Jean Marc.”

  “By the window then?”

  “No.”

  “Where?”

  His father’s gaze shifted to Jean Marc’s face. “You didn’t have to do this.” He smiled. “But it fills me with joy that you did.”

  “What’s a few million livres?” Jean Marc asked lightly. “You wanted it.”

  “No, I have it.” Denis Andreas tapped the center of his forehead with his index finger. “Here. I didn’t need this splendid imitation, my son.”

  Jean Marc went still. “Imitation?”

  His father looked again at the statue. “A glorious imitation. Who did it? Balzar?”

  Jean Marc was silent a moment before he said hoarsely, “Desedero.”

  “Ah, a magnificent sculptor when working in gold. I’m surprised he accepted the commission.”

  Frustration and despair rose in Jean Marc until he could scarcely bear it. “He was afraid you would recognize the difference but I felt I had no choice. I offered the king enough to buy a thousand statues, but Bardot reported that Louis wouldn’t consider selling the Wind Dancer at any price. According to His Majesty, the queen has a particular fondness for it.” His hands closed tightly on the arms of the chair. “But, dammit, it’s the same.”

  Denis Andreas shook his head. “It’s a very good copy. But, my son, the Wind Dancer is …” He shrugged. “I think it has a soul.”

  “Mother of God, it’s only a statue!”

  “I can’t explain. The Wind Dancer has seen so many centuries pass, seen so many members of our family born into the world, live out their lives … and die. Perhaps it has come to be much more than an object, Jean Marc. Perhaps it has become … a dream.”

  “I failed you.”

  “No.” His father shook his head. “It was a splendid gesture, a loving gesture.”

  “I failed you. It hurt me to know you couldn’t have the one thing you so wished—” Jean Marc broke off and attempted to steady his voice. “I wanted to give something to you, something that you’d always wanted.”

  “You have given me something. Don’t you see?”

  “I’ve given you disappointment and chicanery and God knows you’ve had enough of both in your life.” Denis flinched and Jean Marc’s lips twisted. “You see, even I hurt you.”

  “You’ve always demanded too much of yourself. You’ve been a good and loyal son.” He looked Jean Marc in the eye. “And I’ve had a good life. I’ve been fortunate enough to have the means to surround myself with treasures, and I have a son who loves me enough to try to deceive me ever so sweetly.” He nodded at the statue. “And now why don’t you take that lovely thing out to the salon and find a place to show it to advantage?”

  “You don’t want it in here?”

  Denis slowly shook his head. “Looking at it would disturb the fine and fragile fabric of the dream.” His gaze drifted to the portrait of Charlotte Andreas over the fireplace. “You never understood why I did it, did you? You never understood about dreams.”

  Looking intently at his father, Jean Marc felt pain and sorrow roll over him in a relentless tide. “No, I suppose I didn’t.”

  “That hurt you. It shouldn’t.” He once again opened the leather-bound volume he had closed when Jean Marc came into the study. “There must always be a balance between the dreamers and the realists. In this world strength may serve a man far better than dreams.”

  Jean Marc stood up and moved toward the table on which he had set the statue. “I’ll just get this out of your way. It’s almost time for your medicine. You’ll be sure to remember to take it?”

  Denis nodded, his gaze on the page of his book. “You must do something about Catherine, Jean Marc.”

  “Catherine?”

  “She’s been a joy to me but she’s only a child of three and ten. She shouldn’t be here when it happens.”

  Jean Marc opened his mouth to speak, then closed it abruptly. It was the first time his father had indicated he knew the end was near.

  “Please do something about our Catherine, Jean Marc.”

  “I will. I promise you,” Jean Marc said thickly.

  “Good.” Denis looked up. “I’m reading Sanchia’s journal, about old Lorenzo Vasaro and his Caterina.”

  “Again?” Jean Marc picked up the statue and carried it toward the door. “You must have read those old family journals a hundred times.”

  “More. I never tire of them.” His father paused and smiled. “Ah, our ancestor believed in dreams, my son.”

  With effort Jean Marc smiled. “Like you.” He opened the door. “I don’t have to return to Marseilles until evening. Would you like to have dinner on the terrace? The fresh air and sunshine will be good for you.”

  But Denis was once more deeply absorbed in the journal and didn’t answer.

  Jean Marc closed the door and stood a moment, fighting the agony he felt. His father’s last remarks shouldn’t have hurt him, for they were true. He was no dreamer; he was a man of action.

  His hand clenched on the base of the statue. Then he squared his shoulders. The pain was fading. Just as he had known it would. Just as it had so many times before. He strode across the wide foyer and threw open the door to the salon.

  De
sedero’s gaze was searching. “He knew?”

  “Yes.” Jean Marc set the statue back on the pedestal. “I’ll have my agent in Marseilles give you a letter of credit to our bank in Venice for the remainder of the money I owe you.”

  “I don’t wish any more money,” Desedero said. “I cheated you.”

  “Nonsense. You did what you were paid to do.” Jean Marc’s smile was filled with irony. “You were given my livres to create a statue, not a dream.”

  “Ah, yes.” Desedero nodded in understanding. “The dream …”

  “Well, I’m only a man of business who doesn’t understand these idealistic vagaries. It appears a duplicate won’t do, so I will have to get the Wind Dancer for him.”

  “What will you do?”

  “What I should have done in the beginning. Go to Versailles myself and find a way to persuade the queen to sell the Wind Dancer. I didn’t want to leave my father when—” He broke off, his hands again slowly clenching. “I knew he didn’t have much time left.”

  “But how can you expect to succeed when she’s clearly so determined to keep it?” Desedero asked gently.

  “Information.” Jean Marc’s lips twisted in a cynical smile. “I’ll find out what she most desires and give it to her in exchange for the statue. I’ll take lodgings in an inn near the palace and before two weeks are gone I’ll know more about the court and Her Majesty than King Louis does himself, even if I have to bribe every groom and maid in the palace.”

  Desedero gestured to the statue on the pedestal. “And this?”

  Jean Marc avoided looking at the Pegasus as he strode to the door. “I never want to see it again. You may sell off the jewels and melt it down.” He jerked open the door. “God knows, I may need the additional gold to tempt Louis into selling the Wind Dancer.”

  The door slammed behind him.

  TWO

  You’re spoiling the lad.” Marguerite’s thin lips pursed as she gazed at Louis Charles’s fair head nestled against Juliette’s breast. “His nurse won’t thank you for this coddling when we get him back to Versailles.”

  “He’s been ill.” Juliette’s arms tightened protectively around the baby’s warm, firm body. Not really a baby any longer, she thought wistfully. The queen’s second son was over two, but he still felt endearingly small and silken in her arms. “He deserves a little extra attention. The motion of the coach upsets his stomach.”

  “Nonsense. The doctor at Fontainebleau pronounced the prince fit for travel.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s completely well again.” Juliette glared at Marguerite on the seat across from her. “Only two weeks ago he was running a fever high enough for the queen to fear for his life.”

  “Measles don’t always kill. You had them twice and survived.”

  Louis Charles stirred and murmured something into Juliette’s shoulder.

  Juliette looked down, a smile illuminating her face. “Shh, bébé, we’ll soon have you back with your maman. All is well.”

  “Yes, now that we’re returning to Versailles,” Marguerite agreed sourly. “So contrary of you to offer to stay with the child at Fontainebleau when the court returned to Versailles. You knew I’d have to stay with you no matter how much your mother needed my services.”

  Juliette rocked the little boy back and forth, her fingers tangled in his downy, soft curls. It would do no good to argue with Marguerite, she thought wearily. The woman cared for naught but her mother’s comfort and welfare and was never happy except in her presence. It didn’t matter to her that the queen had been worried to distraction when Louis Charles had fallen ill. Marie Antoinette’s baby daughter, Sophie, had died only four months before and Louis Joseph, dauphin and heir to the throne, whose health had always been fragile, was failing rapidly. When Her Majesty’s ever-robust youngest son had succumbed to the measles, she had been in despair.

  “Put him down on the seat,” Marguerite ordered.

  Juliette’s lips set stubbornly. “He’s still not well. Her Majesty said I was to use my own judgment as to his care.”

  “A flighty chit of fourteen has no business caring for a prince.”

  “I’m not putting him down.” Juliette’s lips firmed as she avoided Marguerite’s stare and looked out the window of the carriage. She knew silence would serve her better than quarreling, but meekness was never easy for her. Thank the saints they were close to the town of Versailles now and the palace was just a short distance beyond. She would try to ignore Marguerite and think only of the painting in her trunk on the roof of the carriage. Much of the detail on the trees in the work was Still to be finished; she could paint sunlight filtering through the top leaves of the trees revealing the naked skeletal spines. It would be an interesting effect, suggesting the lack of truth in the characters of the figures she had painted lolling below the boughs of the trees.

  “You always think you know best,” Marguerite grumbled. “Ever since you were a child scarcely older than the prince. Do you believe the queen would have trusted you to stay with Louis Charles if the child’s nurse had not come down with the sickness? Her Majesty will find you out someday. You may amuse her right now with your drawings and bold tongue, but she’s easily bored and will— You’re not listening to me.”

  Juliette shifted her gaze to the thick green shrubbery bordering the bluff on the far side of the road. “No.” She wished Marguerite would cease her acid discourse and let her enjoy these moments of holding the little boy in her arms. She had never had anyone of her own to care for, and during the past few weeks she had actually felt as if Louis Charles belonged to her. But his time of recuperation was over now, she thought wistfully, and in only a few hours she would have to return Louis Charles to his mother and the attention of the royal court.

  Marguerite’s palm cracked against Juliette’s cheek.

  Juliette’s head snapped back, her arms involuntarily loosening about the baby.

  “You’re not too old to be punished for your insolence.” Marguerite smiled with satisfaction at Juliette’s stunned expression. “Your mother trusts me to know how to school you in spite of the spoiling Her Majesty gives you.”

  Juliette’s arms quickly tightened again around Louis Charles. She had not expected the slap. She had clearly misjudged the degree of anger and frustration building in Marguerite since she had been commanded to stay with Juliette at Fontainebleau. “Don’t ever strike me again while I’m holding the boy.” She tried to keep her voice from shaking with anger. “I could have hurt him badly if you’d caused me to drop him.”

  “You’re giving me orders?”

  “I think the queen would be interested to know the reason if Louis Charles suffered any harm, don’t you?”

  Marguerite’s baleful gaze sidled away from Juliette’s stare. “You’ll soon not be able to hide behind the prince. You never would have gotten so out of hand if your mother hadn’t required my services.”

  “I’m not hiding from—”

  A horse neighed in agony.

  The coach lurched and shuddered to a halt, throwing Juliette to her knees on the floor.

  Louis Charles awoke and began to whimper. “Jul …”

  “What is it?” Marguerite thrust her head out the window of the carriage. “You fool of a coachman, what—”

  The blade of a scythe pierced the wood beside her head, burying its curving length through the side of the coach.

  Marguerite shrieked and jerked back from the window.

  “What’s happening?” Crouched on the floor of the coach still, Juliette gazed at the blade. She could hear shouts, metal clashing against metal, the screams of the horses.

  A bullet suddenly splintered the wooden frame of the door.

  “Farmers. Peasants. Hundreds of them. They’re attacking the carriage.” Marguerite’s voice rose in terror. “They’re going to kill me, and it’s all your fault. If you hadn’t insisted on staying with that brat, I’d be safe at Versailles with your mother.”

  “Hush.” Juliett
e had to stem the panic rising in her. She had to think. Stories abounded of carriages and châteaus being attacked by the famine-stricken peasants but never a royal carriage accompanied by the Swiss guard. “We’ll be safe. They can’t overcome the soldiers that—”

  “You fool. There are hundreds of them.”

  Juliette crept closer to the window and looked for herself. Not hundreds but certainly too many to assess at one glance. The scene was total confusion. Coarsely dressed men and women on foot battled the mounted uniformed Swiss guard with scythes and pitchforks. Men on horseback garbed in mesh armor were plunging through the melee, striking with swords at the peasants on either side of them. Two of the four horses pulling the coach were lying dead and bloody on the ground.

  Black Velvet.

  Her gaze was caught and held by the only still, inviolate figure in this scene of blood and death. A tall, lean man wearing a sable velvet cape and polished black knee-boots sat on his horse at the edge of the crowd. The man’s dark eyes gazed without expression at the battle.

  Another bullet exploded in the wood just above the seat where Juliette had been sitting. She ducked lower, her body covering the sobbing child. If they stayed in the carriage, how long before one of those bullets hit Louis Charles, she wondered desperately. She couldn’t stay and wait for it to happen. She had to do something. All the fighting was taking place to the right of the carriage, so the Swiss guard must have kept the mob from surrounding it. The thicket bordering the bluff …

  Juliette crawled toward the door, clutching Louis Charles tightly.

  “Where are you going?” Marguerite asked.

  “I’m trying to escape into the woods bordering the bluff.” Juliette ripped off the linen kerchief from her gown and tied it around the boy’s mouth, muffling his wails. “It’s not safe here for Louis Charles.”