by Wilbur Smith
“How lucky for you that that is so,” said the marquise. “If men always chose beauty over fortune, you would be a spinster still. But I am not so certain about this one,” she added, turning her attention to Constance. “She has survived an Indian dungeon and an inconvenient husband. I do not think she will be so easily brushed aside.”
On the dance floor, Constance was aware of the attention she was attracting. She would have been offended if she had been unnoticed. She had spent hours preparing herself. She had applied make-up so her eyes seemed wider and her mouth more girlish. She had arranged every strand of her hair to affect an artless innocence. Lacking the funds to pay either a maid or a seamstress, she had sewn and re-sewn her dress until the effect was perfect.
She knew the old women would be gossiping about her behind their fans. Let them. She was well versed in the art of gossip from Calcutta: it was the last consolation of women who had lost their beauty and had no other advantage. No longer interesting to men, they spent their energies tearing down those who had supplanted them.
And even gossip had its uses. If those women made catty remarks to their husbands, it would make the husbands look more lasciviously at Constance. If they invited her to their homes so they could sneer at her—who knew whom she might meet once she was through the front door?
The women were looking at her because men were looking at her—and that was what mattered. She sensed their gazes, even though she pretended to ignore them, soaked up their regard and drew strength from it. She wasn’t complacent. Like her dress, straining against her bosom, her life was one stitch from disaster. But it gave her a delicious energy. On the coach journey from Lorient she had promised herself two things: that she would survive, and that she would never be as bored again as she had been by Lascaux.
The dance ended. She curtsied to her partner and he bowed, stealing a surreptitious glance at the tops of her breasts. “May I have the privilege of the next dance, madame?” he inquired.
She assumed an expression of deep regret. “Alas, I am already spoken for. And the next five dances, as well.”
She saw his crestfallen look. “We will surely dance again before the night is over, monsieur. I will seek you out.”
But she could not keep her word. The throng of men around her—young, eligible, ardent—kept her busy all night.
It was nearly eleven o’clock, and supper was about to be served, when the door to the assembly room opened. Even the musicians seemed to skip a note as the new arrival marched in. He took a glass of wine from a servant on a tray and tossed it down in a single gulp, surveying the room.
“Major General de Corbeil,” the footman announced.
Constance had been dancing with her back to him. At the sound of his name, she almost trod on her partner’s foot—but she resisted the impulse to stare. The name was burned into her memory along with every other detail of that terrible siege. He had been there only for an instant, one moment in the sweep of a mighty campaign. Surely he would not recognize her.
But what if he did? What if he remembered that she had married Captain Lascaux? What if he knew that Lascaux was not lost at sea, but living with his fat wife somewhere in Bordeaux? Constance would be ruined.
She glanced over her shoulder. Discreetly—but not discreetly enough. Their eyes met. Corbeil’s face, already pale, went deathly white. His lips looked blood red, like those of an animal that had been feasting on a carcass. He flinched as if someone had kicked him.
Constance and Corbeil made to turn away at the same time, but one of the bystanders had already noticed their eyes meeting. Oblivious to the undercurrents, eager to make introductions, she said, “You know Madame de Courtenay, General?”
Corbeil shook his head. “No.”
Constance did not contradict him. He looked as if he wanted to murder her, though she had no idea why she should provoke such a reaction. All she felt was the rush of relief that he had not betrayed her secret.
With a curt nod, Corbeil spun on his heel and walked away. Watching from the card tables, the old women lowered their heads and conferred behind their fans.
“There is history there, you mark my words.”
“Who knows what may have happened in India?”
“You do not think there could have been a liaison?”
“It cannot have been a happy affair. Did you see the look he gave her?”
“It is because she is half English. General Corbeil hates the English to the very depths of his heart.”
They all concluded that must be the reason. Only the old marquise disagreed. She knew more of men than anyone else in the room. Over the course of her life she had studied them, probed them and amassed a considerable collection. She understood their ways and their motives. To her eye, it was not hatred that animated Corbeil, but something quite the opposite.
She kept her thoughts to herself.
•••
After the marquise’s ball, Constance received more invitations than she had hours in her days. Lunches, dinners, walks, picnics, races: there was no occasion at which she was not welcome. She sat in private boxes at the Comédie Française and the Opéra. She was taken for rides in the Bois de Boulogne. She visited grand townhouses, and vast châteaux in the country. All her hosts commented on her impeccable manners, her charming conversation and her vivacious company.
It was true that not everyone finished with so favorable an opinion. A wealthy merchant from Poitiers declared she had a heart of stone. The son of the Comte d’Artois spent three days weeping in his bedroom when she returned his letters. There was a minor scandal when, at a château near Rheims, her hostess’s husband was found in Constance’s bedroom at three o’clock in the morning in a state of undress. He claimed he had been sleepwalking. The invitations Constance received redoubled.
The Courtney family had always had a genius for trade. Constance applied this talent to her own chosen field. She was a speculator in men, and her adventures were—in their way—every bit as successful as those of her privateer ancestors. She received many gifts, which she reinvested to considerable profit once the giver was no longer around. A pair of diamond earrings bought her a maid so she did not have to spend so many hours grooming and preparing herself. A necklace enabled her to secure better lodgings on the rue de Varenne, with a discreet landlady who allowed her to receive visitors without embarrassment. Even then, she never had enough money. Her endless round of social engagements required ever-changing costumes, and the number of dresses in her wardrobe proliferated like spring flowers. As fast as she made her profits, she had to reinvest the proceeds in the future of her enterprise.
Sometimes she lay awake, naked under the moonlight, after her lover had left. In those small hours, she wondered how long this could last. But then she would remember the thrill when a man caught her gaze, the comforting power she felt as she allowed him to kiss her hand. The wretch who had been locked in the Black Hole was dead. Here, in this new land, she was mistress of her own destiny.
And there were still other, richer, worlds for her to conquer.
•••
It seemed half of Paris society wanted to make her acquaintance. But Constance had few friends, and almost none she could confide in. The exception was a much older woman, the Marquise de Sologne, who had sought her out after her introduction to society at the ball. She had fine, angular features that hinted at the beauty she had once been. She was the only woman with whom Constance did not feel in competition. She could be honest with the marquise. The older woman was so astute, it was impossible to deceive her.
They were walking down the Grande Allée of the Jardin des Tuileries one afternoon when the marquise asked suddenly, “How long do you think you can keep up your little game?”
Constance smiled. She had spent hours in front of a mirror practicing her best smile. Sometimes she would even prick herself with a needle, forcing herself to keep smiling through the pain. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“I
am sure you do,” said the marquise. “You are climbing a ladder, my dear, and the higher you go, the more it threatens to topple you. The only question is whether you will stop before you fall.”
Constance continued to smile—but, inside, she was in turmoil. She knew how precarious her position was. She had lived in Paris for almost a year with no income. Her admirers’ gifts had been useful, but life was expensive and she always needed more funds. She had pushed her credit to breaking point. That morning, her landlady had given her one week to pay what she owed or leave.
The marquise fixed her with shrewd eyes. “When will you stop? When you have snared a count? A duke? When you are presented at Versailles? When the King of France himself takes you into his bed—will that be enough?”
Constance’s smile faltered. She looked around, terrified that someone might have heard. “I need security. I want to be safe.”
“And you think one more rung on your ladder will achieve it?” The marquise laughed. “I know the temptation, when the game is running high and one more card can make the difference between fortune and poverty. But that is the way to bankruptcy.”
“Do you doubt my skill at this game?”
“For a time, you had Paris at your feet because you were a beautiful novelty. But beauty fades, and novelty wears off. I have not seen you at the Opéra this past fortnight.”
“I have been feeling under the weather.”
“You are so charming when you lie. The truth is, you have not been invited. Your star is waning—I tell you this as a friend. The whiff of scandal already follows you. I have done what I can to dismiss the rumors, but people will talk. I am sure you can imagine what they are saying. A little notoriety is no bad thing, but one day you will step too far. You have no family and no estate to support you. You have a long way to fall.”
They reached a corner, where three brazenly dressed prostitutes were laughing together. Constance was still smiling, but her eyes were moist with tears she would not let go. She felt naked, as exposed as she had been on the nawab’s bed. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I am your friend. And I admire your bravery.”
That much was true. It was also true that she had wagered a hundred livres with one of her friends that Constance would find a husband before she was disgraced, but she did not mention that. The poor girl was under enough pressure.
They walked on, the gravel crunching beneath their feet. Constance knew the marquise was right. But it was not only the danger to her reputation she feared. If she married—if she called time on the game and stepped away from the table—what then? A tedious life as a respectable matron, closeted in a château in the country where she could deliver heirs for some minor noble? Was this what she had escaped the Black Hole and the nawab’s attempted rape for?
“What about him?” she said suddenly. A man was approaching down the path, dressed in the splendid uniform of the hussars. A colonel’s epaulets gleamed on his shoulder.
The marquise shuddered. “Stay away! That man is more dangerous than a nest of vipers.”
But he had seen them. He veered toward them and swept off his hat in such a theatrical manner that Constance could not help giggling.
“Madame,” he greeted the marquise.
“Monsieur de Mauvières,” she answered coolly.
He turned his gaze on Constance and she felt emotions stir. He was much older than her, in his forties, but it suited him. The little lines that creased the corners of his eyes gave him a knowing look, while a scar on his cheek made it seem that his mouth was drawn into a permanent sardonic grin.
“Have you raided a convent again to find this vision of beauty?” he asked the marquise. “How is it I have never seen her before?”
“I understood raiding convents was your specialty,” the marquise returned. “This is Constance de Courtenay, a respectable widow. She has been in Paris this past year.”
Mauvières took Constance’s hands between his and fixed his stare on her. It was a long time since she had blushed, but a tinge of pink rose to her cheeks at the intensity of his attention. “So this is the famous Constance de Courtenay,” he breathed. “Even in the front lines of the war with Prussia, your name is a byword for charm and accomplishment.”
Constance could feel the marquise radiating disapproval. But Mauvières had an energy that was irresistible. “Have you been in the war?”
“I was at Hamelin. But beauty should not speak of such ugly matters. Now I am in Paris, I insist on only joy and pleasure. In fact, I have tickets for the Opéra on Friday. Perhaps you would do me the honor of attending with me.”
The look that accompanied his invitation was so intense that Constance almost said yes. A dig in the ribs from the marquise’s elbow said otherwise.
“Alas, I cannot—”
His face fell. “Perhaps there will be another occasion.”
“I should like that.”
“Until then—au revoir.” He doffed his hat again and kissed her hand. Constance followed him with a lingering look as he strode jauntily away.
“He seemed very pleasant,” she murmured. “I cannot understand why you called him ‘dangerous.’”
“That man has many faces, and he calculates which to show with a cunning you cannot fathom,” said the marquise, darkly. “Stay away from him, if you value your future.”
But when Friday evening came, Constance was at the Hôtel de Bourgogne, wearing her most daring dress. She had begged the ticket from a friend whose mother was ill and unable to go—Constance could not afford to buy one for herself. She had one more night before she would be evicted from her home.
“That man over there is paying you a great deal of attention,” said her friend, pointing to a box on the far side of the theater while the orchestra tuned up.
Constance pretended not to notice. “I am sure he is looking at you, my dear Sophie.”
“Do you think so?” Sophie surreptitiously adjusted the bodice of her dress. “Do you know who he is?”
“Should I?”
“That is Colonel de Mauvières. They say he is worth fifty thousand a year, but Maman has forbidden me to speak to him. He has a wicked reputation.”
“Your mother is very wise,” Constance said. But after the performance, when Sophie had gone to powder her face, she heard a familiar voice behind her in the salon.
“So you have come, after all.”
The press in the salon was tight. The air was thick with wig powder and candle wax. Mauvières leaned in close, his face inches from hers. Again, Constance felt herself flush. She told herself it was the heat.
“I had hoped the opera would be about India,” said Constance. “I so looked forward to seeing what Paris would make of the country where I grew up.”
The opera was Les Indes galantes—“the seductive Indies”—by the aging composer Rameau. In fact, the opera turned out to be about the Indians of North America, a subject in which Constance had little interest.
“Alas, America is all the fashion now,” said Mauvières. “Soon everyone will be wearing bearskins and painting their faces. The king is assembling a great army to invade the British colonies there and take possession once and for all. I myself have been granted a command.”
“And will you seduce a poor Indian princess, and make her choose between you and her native lover, like the opera?” Constance’s eyes sparkled.
Mauvières pretended to consider it. “Perhaps. I hear that the Indian women dress with a scandalous lack of modesty and are liberal with their favors.” He ran his eyes over the neck of Constance’s dress. “Happily, you Parisian women are models of propriety and virtue. Give me a femme galante over an Inde galante any day.”
It was a pun—and more than a little risqué. A femme galante was a prostitute.
The theatregoers were starting to disperse as their carriages were called. Mauvières moved so close she felt his breath warming her neck. His hand rested lightly against her back. “Come to my house tonight
. I will send my coachman. No one will see.”
Before Constance could reply, he pirouetted away with feline grace and disappeared into the crowd.
•••
Sophie had invited Constance for supper afterward, but Constance claimed she was feeling a little faint and cried off. She returned to her apartments on the rue de Varenne and sat by the window, watching rain patter on the damp streets. She waited so long, she convinced herself he would not come. But still she sat there.
It was nearly midnight when she heard the rattle of wheels on the slick cobbles. She flitted from the house to the carriage door so fast she was sure she could not have been seen. The coachman cracked the whip. The carriage pulled away.
He drove quickly. Paris after midnight was not a safe place, particularly once they’d left the protection of the city walls. Constance knew from the bloodcurdling stories she’d heard that highwaymen and brigands lurked in dark places. They drove on through the Bois de Vincennes. All she saw in the light of the carriage lamps was tight clusters of branches, sometimes so close they brushed the doors of the coach, like fur. She wrapped her shawl closer around her bare shoulders.
At last the bumpy road gave way to a firm drive. The coach pulled up outside a huge château. She glimpsed massive old stones and stern towers, before a liveried servant led her inside.
Most of the house was dark, but a large fire burned in the salon. The servant brought her a glass of spiced wine and withdrew. She stood beside the fire, warming herself.
“You came.”
Mauvières’s voice was so unexpected in the mournful house it made Constance jump. Wine spilled over her fingers. He stood in the doorway with a bottle in his hand. He wore no coat or cravat, and his shirt was unbuttoned to his navel.
He advanced toward her. The flames threw long shadows behind him, while hunting trophies watched from the wall. Constance felt a flicker of fear.
He took her hand and licked the wine off her fingers. His teeth grazed her flesh. She felt disoriented. She was no stranger to seduction—but always on her own terms. It frightened her to have lost control so quickly. “The Marquise de Sologne tells me you are a wicked and dangerous man,” she murmured.
