Finding Emilie (50 page)

Had the baroness’s eyes darted? Lili wasn’t sure.

“Mademoiselle du Châtelet came away from Cirey with some correspondence,” the count said, taking one letter from a small leather portfolio and handing it to the baronne.

“The seal is broken,” she said, fixing Lili with a critical stare.

“It was not addressed to you, madame,” Buffon said. “In fact, you will see it is addressed to no one, since it was given directly to Mademoiselle du Châtelet. It was her right to open it if she wished.”

The baroness turned it over to look at the blank exterior and passed the vellum sheet to the lawyer. “Perhaps you could read it aloud. My eyes are not what they once were.”

Monsieur Brillat cleared his throat. “‘To all those it may concern, in regard to Stanislas-Adélaïde du Châtelet: I, Florent-Claude, am the father of the aforementioned child. I recently appointed Philippe-Charlotte, Baronne Lomont, to serve as my representative in the betrothal and marriage of my daughter. I hereby revoke that appointment in favor of a representative of my daughter’s choosing. Sincerely, Florent-Claude, Marquis du Châtelet.’”

“This is absurd!” the baroness said, putting down her cup forcefully enough to warrant a scolding if Lili had done it that clumsily as a child.

“Not at all.” Buffon shrugged. “What he gave, he can take away.” He took a sip of coffee with the utmost casualness, as if they were discussing nothing more important than the weather. “And Mademoiselle du Châtelet has chosen me.”

“You are not even a relative!” she said. “I’m surprised you would accept. It’s already a bit of a scandal that she spends so much time with you. It’s hardly proper to have such interest in a child not your own kin.”

“Well,” Buffon said, setting the trap. “Perhaps that makes two of us.” He pulled out the second letter and handed it to the lawyer.

“It looks the same.” Brillat looked up in confusion. “‘To all
those it may concern, in regard to Stanislas-Adélaïde du Châtelet: I, Florent-Claude, am—’” He suddenly stopped reading and looked up at Buffon, who was sitting back in his chair, waiting. “It says I, Florent-Claude, am not the father of the aforementioned child.”

“What?” The baroness leaned forward, her chalky skin mottling with pink. “This is an outrage!”

The lawyer went on. “‘I recently appointed Philippe-Charlotte, Baronne Lomont, to serve as my appointed representative in the betrothal and marriage of said child. I did this with no legitimate authority, since another man, Jean-François de Saint-Lambert, is her father. As of today, Stanislas-Adélaïde is disinherited, and neither I nor any member of my family will take any responsibility on my behalf in the matter of her marriage.’”

The victory far outweighed the pain of the letter’s contents. Lili had waited several days at Cirey for the marquis to be sufficiently angry to write the second one. He had already been sanguine enough to write the first, although at that moment the marquis had thought she was Emilie asking him sweetly for a favor. Some things the baroness simply doesn’t need to know, Lili thought, lowering her head to disguise the smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

The lawyer put the letter down. “Well, that certainly makes a tangle of things. Is he or is he not her father? Even he doesn’t seem to know.”

“He is!” the baroness spat. “The child befuddled his mind.”

“I don’t think Lili played much of a role at all,” Buffon said, producing the third letter, written in the childlike scrawl of someone with little opportunity to practice. He read this one himself. “‘I, Berthe Villon-Crassy, and my husband, Lucien Crassy, both of Cirey, have served all our lives at the château. Sometimes Monsieur le Marquis’s memory is good but he don’t recognize people from one day to the next, and thinks things are happening that aren’t. He don’t pass one day without saying things that make no sense or are different from what he said an hour before. He’s been like this for going on two years now, and it’s only living here so long that makes us know
what to do with him.’” Buffon handed the letter to the baronne. “It’s signed by Berthe, with her husband’s X underneath, and witnessed by the village priest.”

“Well, there you have it,” the baroness said. “Just what the servants said—he doesn’t know from one moment to the next—”

Buffon held up his hand to cut her off. “Precisely. And that’s why the document you claim gives you permission to choose a husband for Lili is no more valid than these.” The baroness looked like a duelist in the moment between the firing of the shot and the realization he has been hit. “This Berthe makes it quite clear that his condition is long-standing,” the count added, “and it is no more certain he wishes your assistance than that he wishes Lili to choose for herself.”

Baronne Lomont gave her lawyer a questioning look. “Your letter would be a difficult authority to enforce, madame, under these circumstances,” Brillat said.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, Lili thought, picturing Voltaire’s mischievous smile. It was true that the answer had been right in front of her nose: who her father was didn’t matter, just the fact that the marquis wasn’t. Voltaire had been right about how different she would feel if he had told her the answer. This is my victory, she knew, and now it Marquis’s was hers to claim.

She took the Marquis’s two letters back from the lawyer. Holding one in each hand, she locked her gaze on the old woman across from her. “You are correct that these letters are contradictory, Baronne Lomont. You may pick which one will be destroyed after my wedding.”

“I most certainly will not be coerced into such a choice,” the baroness hissed with the ferocity of a cornered animal. “My letter is as valid as either of these, and I will continue to presume it is in force until….” Her voice died away.

“Until you hear otherwise from the marquis?” Buffon said softly. “My dear madame, I think you just have.”

“I shall write him immediately to see if there’s been trickery here.” She looked away with a haughty toss of her head.

“My dear baroness,” Buffon said. “I must tell you with the utmost
seriousness that, given the confusion that exists about the marquis as a result of these letters, even if you were to get another letter designating you, I would be obligated to file a formal objection to any marriage I knew was not desired by Mademoiselle du Châtelet. That is, of course, why public announcements of marriage are made in advance, so reasonable objections by any party may be heard.”

To Lili’s surprise, seeing Baronne Lomont so agitated was excruciating rather than pleasurable. “I’m sorry it’s come to this,” she said, trying to put a touch of softness into what she knew had to be a strong and unwavering voice. “I truly regret having to defy you when you have put so much effort into what you thought was right for me. I am grateful for your concern that I marry well, but I will be the one to decide what that entails.”

She struggled to hold her stare as her heart went out a little more to the anguished baroness. “And of course, any attempt to stop my monthly allowance based on a claim that I have been disinherited would require that you produce the letter naming Monsieur Saint-Lambert as my father when I bring the matter to a court of law.”

The blankness in the baroness’s eyes told Lili that her old nemesis would have no secret weapon to reveal this time. “And if I may interject,” Buffon said, “I propose that on the day Mademoiselle du Châtelet is married, not just one but all four letters be destroyed, including yours, Baronne Lomont. Nothing is served by discussing the marquis’s health or Lili’s parentage or finances beyond this room, but I must be clear that keeping these matters private will depend upon your conceding you have no further role to play in her marriage.”

“Shall we discuss this alone?” Brillat asked.

The baroness’s face was now scarlet and her eyes singed the air. “No!” she snapped. “That won’t be necessary. I wash my hands of this tawdry mess.” She stood up. “Marry whomever you wish, Stanislas-Adélaïde.” She did not look at her, but turned directly to the count. “I’ll call the doorman to see you out.”

*   *   *

JEAN-ÉTIENNE WAS WAITING
in the greenhouse, but Tatou reached Lili and the count first, screeching as he bounded over, and scrambled up onto her shoulder. Jean-Étienne got up from the notes he was working on and rushed over.

“Well, it appears as if I misspoke again,” the Count de Buffon said. “It is just a matter of publishing the bans, and Lili will be married before the end of the year.” A bewildered Lili and a distraught Jean-Étienne stared at him openmouthed, and seeing the torture on both their faces, the count lost heart to toy with them. “Married to each other—at least that’s what I hope you will decide to do.”

It took a moment to register, but when it did, Jean-Étienne’s face exploded in a grin, and he ran over to Lili, picking her up and twirling her around. He put her down and held her at arm’s length to look at her beaming face. “I cannot believe how lucky I am,” he said. Too shy to give her more than a perfunctory kiss in front of the count, he let her go, slipping his hand down to take hers. “Tell me everything!” he said, looking back and forth between them.

“She washes her hands of the whole mess.” Lili looked at the count. “I think that’s what she said, wasn’t it?” Buffon rocked back on his heels, obviously pleased with himself. “I believe her exact words were ‘this tawdry mess.’”

“And you, Uncle?” Jean-Étienne asked.

“Mademoiselle’s representative in everything,” Buffon said with a smile.

“Well then,” the young man replied, “may we talk privately, sir?” He looked perplexed. “Is that what I’m supposed to say? Last time it was all said for me, so I’m not quite sure.”

Buffon held up his hand. “There’s a certain young lady whose feelings must be ascertained first. And for that, I shall leave you alone. When you’re ready, you’ll find me in my study, making a mess of those rodent bones you brought from the Falklands.”

As the count took his leave, Lili gave Jean-Étienne a sidelong glance. He’ll be the father of my children, she thought, noticing how his cheeks glowed pink under his milky skin, how his fine, light
brown hair glowed in the light, how his eyes sparkled with health and intelligence. Not the one you’d pick out in a crowd, she thought, but no matter who was in that crowd, he’d be the best one of all.

Jean-Étienne bent one knee to the ground and Tatou scrambled down from his shoulder to perch on it. Jean-Étienne laughed. “This doesn’t involve you, little friend.” Taking a small fruit from his pocket, he threw it on the floor and Tatou scrambled after it. “Stanislas-Adélaïde,” he said, “would you be so kind as to—”

Lili smiled at the formality. “Stop!” she said. “You sound as if you want me to pass you the salt. Start again—and call me Lili.”

“Lili.” Jean-Étienne’s face grew serious. “I think I fell in love with you that day in the salon when you faced down Abbé Turgot. I am so sorry that I caused you pain with Francine, and I promise I will do my best never to hurt you again. If you agree to be my wife, I will strive every day to be worthy of you.” He kissed her hand. “I will support your dreams, and together we can be more than we could ever be alone.”

He started to get up. “Haven’t you forgotten something?” Lili tried to tease him, but she could barely get the words out for the size of her grin. “You have to ask, remember?”

“Oh, yes.” Jean-Étienne’s cheeks colored. “Stanislas-Adélaïde du Châtelet, will you marry me?”

She put her hands around his face. “Get up,” she said in a mock command. “That’s my first order, and you’d better get used to hearing them!”

Once he had risen, she brushed his lips with hers. “Yes,” she said. “I will marry you.” He caught her up in his arms and kissed her firmly, passionately. “I will be by your side through whatever life brings,” Lili said when he had pulled away to kiss her eyes, her forehead, her neck. “I will be your champion and your friend, and—”

“Don’t forget,” Jean-Étienne said, still kissing her, “the mother of our children.”

“The mother of our children,” Lili whispered. “If God is good to us.” Tatou screeched, and Lili felt his feet tickle her back as he
bounded to her shoulder. “And until then, we have you,” she said, with a laugh, scratching the monkey behind the ear.

“Let’s go tell Uncle!” Jean-Étienne said with the exuberance of a young boy who has found a treasure. He grabbed her hand, but Lili held back.

“I have something I want to do.” She looked around and found an orchid drooping with the weight of its flowers. Taking a pair of cutters from the table, she removed one stalk.

“I want to share this moment with a person I can’t run back and tell,” Lili said, tearing the petals from one orchid and sprinkling them at their feet.

“Let’s preserve our ambitions, and above all, know well who we want to be,” she said. “Let’s decide on the road we want to follow in life, and always try to scatter the path with flowers.” She took another orchid and tossed the petals in the direction of the greenhouse door.

“Who said that?” Jean-Étienne asked, taking Tatou on his hand and putting him down to investigate.

“My mother. She wrote something before she died—an essay on how to be happy. She wrote it for me, I think—strange as that may sound, since she never knew me. I’ve read it so many times I can recite parts from memory.” Facing him, she took his hands in hers and looked into his eyes. “Let’s try, Jean-Étienne. Whatever life brings, let’s try to be truly happy together.”

“Perhaps your mother can teach us both about that,” he replied. “It’s not always the easiest thing, although it seems it should be.”

He picked up Tatou. “Back in your cage, little fellow,” he said. “It’s time for Lili and me to go visit the count.” The greenhouse pulsed with life as they walked out into the golden light of the Jardin de Roi.