Goddess (10 page)

H
E ALWAYS SAYS THAT
C
UPID
pierced his heart in the same moment.

Well, well. Glorious words. It may be they’re even true.

Ah! Listen to me. I do him a disservice. Yes, I slept with him many times over the years, to seal the deal as it were, but that’s beside the point. D’Albert became my dearest friend. I’d never had any sort of friend before—freaks don’t, as a rule—and I wasn’t very good at it at first.

Yet we have loved each other all these years—sometimes like man and wife, sometimes like brother and sister, sometimes like Christ and the Magdalene.

Not faithfully, no. Not in the sense you mean. Far from it. What would be the point? We’re not married—never could be. Men of his lineage don’t marry the women they love. Certainly not if the women are common. Mind you, I’m not common in any other sense, but I am of … how shall we put it politely? I am of more humble origin than he—not just born of the common people, but of the drunken, battle-scarred grotesques. Of the fairground and the romances. Of those pages of the Old Testament that you skip over late at night. Of the edges and dark corners.

And he—well, he will be a great man of France one day, almost as grand as d’Armagnac. He’ll be a
duc
, you mark my words, living in one of those whopping chateaux with a puffy wife and a good hunting stable, going to Versailles for the season, keeping a mistress or two in Paris.

But at that time, he was a silly boy, a love-plundered, moon-gazing romantic—his head crammed with tales of pale young noblemen swooning over maidens disguised as men. He’s the only man I’ve met, besides the King, who’s read every word of
Amadis de Gaule
.

Books—I blame books. They create nothing but folly in men’s brains. I’ve seen it many times. D’Albert was the most feeble-minded of all when it came to epics and fairy tales and endless romances. He rattled on and on about destiny, about lovers’ paths crossing, about guiding stars—oh, I can’t tell it all without blushing.

I had to kiss him, in the end, to shut him up.

I admired him—of course I did—but I didn’t love him at first. My heart had so recently been damaged; my mind was elsewhere, miles away, in a convent in Provence where my other, finer self lay prostrate on cold marble begging for forgiveness from the likes of you, though God in His wisdom knows she’d done nothing wrong.

But d’Albert knew nothing of that, nothing of her—nothing, it must be said, of me. That didn’t prevent him from dedicating his life to my happiness and a whole lot of other nonsense he’d learned from books. You see? The damned things are downright dangerous.

Eh? Yes, yes. I’m getting to that. You want to know about d’Albert—everyone always wants to know about d’Albert, as if—though perhaps it’s true—he is the best part of me, and no matter what happens we return to each other, always.

He’s allowed himself to be engaged to some cross-eyed simpleton now—rich and hideous, no doubt, though I’ve never actually laid eyes on the woman. Needless to say, I won’t be invited to the wedding banquet. None of his old friends will be there, at the bride’s request, presumably in case we help him escape. So the finest of men will live out his life in rural stupidity somewhere near Compiègne, well out of reach of bad influences like friendship.

He writes every month, mind you. I write back, silly letters full of nonsense about our youth. I don’t send them. The Abbess has rules about that kind of thing. I keep them under the bed, in a satchel, tied up with bootlaces.

Could … if I’m unable, for any reason, if I don’t get to see him again, to talk—would you send them for me? The Abbess need never know. But to d’Albert—if I’m … It would mean the world to me. To him.

Father, I will not beg you for absolution. Or forgiveness. But I do ask this of you—one small gift—a gesture.

Please?

He would reward you, if that’s what you’re after.

Of course. Your position. I understand. Ridiculous of me to ask. A moment of weakness, of madness—blame the fever. I thought, for just a moment, you were of humanity, not the priesthood.

My mistake.

So. D’Albert. Yes.

He hates me being here. He wrote me the most monstrous, hilarious letter months ago. Listen—I have it by my side.

Pay attention. I won’t read it all, just the good parts. You will see what a fool, what a prince, I have for a friend. I asked him for advice—should I take the veil? I threatened to do so when I first arrived here. I’m not sure who was more horrified: the Abbess or d’Albert. I wondered if I should abandon my city life and offer myself up completely to the Lord, or just take a few restful months here as a guest, to recover my wits.

I may yet take the veil. Would you like that? Another soul gathered to the good?

Joseph, I fear, would not approve. He responded—listen to this.

Is it my religion, is it my heart, is it my kindness that you want to put to the test?

Ha! Poor boy. It’s always he who is suffering. I am half dead, half mad with grief, but it’s his poor heart that is tested. That was always his style. Born a brat, and never grew out of it. Bless him.

Don’t you know that you can only achieve the happiness to which you aspire at the expense of my own, and that it will cost me my peace?

Doesn’t it make you weep? With laughter, perhaps. But now we come to the point.

To consent to your plans, I have to detach myself from myself, must stifle all sense of sensitivity and delicacy; must finally speak to you what is quite opposite to the movement of my heart, and so immolate myself to please you.

Never has Reason so taken on Nature. So consider whether this sacrifice is worth the price. This is the greatest thing I’ve done, and could do, with my life.

Nicely put, don’t you think? I was supposed to drop everything and rush to his side—or, at least, to some inn halfway, where we could meet in secret.

I wonder, sometimes, why I didn’t do what he so clearly wished. But my heart was weakened, my soul so worn, so nearly threadbare, my body frail, and there was nowhere, nothing, for me but here.

All those people, all those lovers. But only one cares if I’m here, or alive, or not. Only one—or two or three—will sob, uncontrollably, for hours when he hears the news. Won’t go out that evening, and possibly the next. Will flinch if he hears my name, my death, discussed in the salons.

Do they even hold salons in Compiègne? I imagine that so far north the repertoire only extends to pig shows and harvest dances. Nobody else there will know my name.

I should go to him. He’d look after me. I know it. I’d feel better. I nursed him once—twice. Then. He’d do the same for me. I’ll get out of this bed and then it’s only two days’ ride—or a carriage—yes, I think so. Takes longer, of course, but I’m a little unwell. Call a carriage for me, would you? Ring for the maid. I must get dressed. My hair. Where are my riding boots? No—a carriage is better, that’s right. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have. I confess everything. Now may I go? Where? Yes, a carriage. Tomorrow.

First I need to sleep.

D
’A
LBERT IS FEVERISH
. T
HE
wound has festered slightly. He’s so wan now you can see the blood pulse sluggishly under the skin on his throat, his wrists. His friends won’t come near him, except one. The young Duc d’Uzès, as dark as d’Albert is blond, stands by the bedside—loyal, bored witless and praying for a surgeon, for the coach expected to arrive any hour from Paris—anyone—to sort out this mess.

D’Uzès watches the dust float through a shaft of light. He offers wine, ale, a little broth.

D’Albert turns his head away. ‘I want her. I need only her.’

It has been this way for hours. It’s extremely tiresome.

‘She’s a sprite, Joseph,’ says d’Uzès. ‘A chimera. Long gone by now. Don’t wear yourself out thinking about her.’

‘She’s a goddess.’

D’Uzès sighs. ‘You’re deluded. She almost killed you.’

‘Yes!’ D’Albert manages a smile. ‘Have you ever seen the like?’

‘Drink something,’ says d’Uzès, holding a glass to his friend’s lips. ‘Please. Just a little.’

‘Why? Oh, why?’

‘You’ll die if you don’t, you fool.’ He gives up, places the glass back on the tray, and slumps against the wall.

‘What of it?’

‘In the name of God!’

A knock on the door.

D’Uzès barks a welcome; hopes for the doctor—or one of the others to take a turn at this infernally stupid conversation. He jumps to his feet and opens the door.

It’s her.

D’Uzès shifts so Julie can’t see into the room. ‘What do you want, mademoiselle?’ he whispers.

She peers over his shoulder at the golden boy. ‘I hear your young friend is ill—suffering.’

‘Thanks to you.’

‘Thanks also to his own insolence.’

‘Did you come here to mock him?’ D’Uzès notes her rough breeches, her homespun cloak. Some harridan from the provinces. How she managed that winning thrust he will never know. Luck. Sheer luck. ‘Be off.’

‘On the contrary,’ Julie says, ‘I came to enquire after his health. To see if there’s anything—’

‘You’ve done enough.’

The man in the bed cries out. ‘Is it her? Has she come?’

Julie pushes d’Uzès aside. ‘Yes. I am here.’

‘At last.’ D’Albert raises a thin hand towards her.

‘Is there anything you need?’

‘Only you,’ says d’Albert. ‘To know that you are close.’

‘That I can offer.’ Julie moves to the side of the bed as if she’s known him all her life. He tries to rise but falls back.

D’Uzès is still standing by the open door. ‘I’ve sent for a surgeon,’ he tells her. ‘From Paris. He’ll be here today. Should be. Soon.’

But nobody’s listening.

D’Albert stares up at an incomprehensibly beautiful face. An angel come to bear him to Heaven. ‘Your name, mademoiselle? I beg you.’

‘I am Julie-Émilie de Maupin.’

‘What do your friends call you?’

‘My friends? I don’t know. My father calls me Julia.’

‘Then I shall call you Émilie.’

She laughs. The sound is the music of paradise. Of summer. Of flowers. ‘As you wish.’

Even smiling hurts, but he can’t help it. ‘And I am Joseph.’

‘Enchanted.’

The woman places her hand on d’Albert’s sweaty forehead, says something low and soft, and he closes his eyes.

‘Thank you, d’Uzès,’ he says. ‘You may go.’

D’Uzès slams the door. They don’t care.

W
E SPENT TWO WEEKS
in that room. Together. The surgeon bustled in and out every so often. The maid brought meals and wine. Good wine, it was, too. Hadn’t eaten that well since—since before I met Clara. Great haunches of beef, dripping with fat. Whole loaves of bread. We were insatiable, d’Albert and I. Always were. Always will be. That’s just how it is.

He healed quickly. He claimed it was my nursing but I suspect he only wanted to get better so he could—well, never mind.

You don’t need to know that.

I know that’s the part you secretly want to hear, everyone does, but I’m not in the mood. All you need to know is that after a couple of weeks of being shut up in a room with one person I grew restless. Needed air. Sunshine. Music.

D’Albert says I dumped him by the side of the road. It’s a nice story, but it isn’t true. He was happily tucked up in his bed, smiling in his sleep. I sat by the fire, watching him, wondering if that was it—if he was it—if I should just allow myself to be … I don’t know. Adored. Pampered.

Like a mistress.

Before I even knew I’d done it, I’d packed and saddled and set out on the east road. Two days after that, I met Thévenard.

Yes, indeed. The great Thévenard, the legendary Thévenard. Gabriel-Vincent Thévenard, the voice, the star. Except he wasn’t—not then. He was just a boy on the run, on the road to Paris.

He was big, even then—huge, with a booming voice—a fine voice, really fine. He has great depth of tone but absolutely no depth of expression. I’ve told him this. He can’t whisper. Ever. It is impossible for him. He shouts, or sings, and laughs. He declaims. Always has, as long as I’ve known him, and it’s been many years now. On stage, it doesn’t matter—in fact, the crowd loves it—loves him. But up close it can get very tiring. He wears us all out.

When we first met, I found it amusing. He made me laugh and—you can imagine the state I was in, what with Clara and the law, and then d’Albert wanting me within arm’s reach every second—laughter was both rare and comforting. He had the shiniest hair, I remember, and a moustache that he twirled into points, and he fiddled with it when he was thinking. Which wasn’t often. He was as swarthy and strong as d’Albert was pale and wiry. Chalk and cheese, as they say. Yet I met them both within a few weeks and have loved them both, wholeheartedly, ever since. As they have loved me—do love me, still, to this day, though we’ve led each other on many treacherous paths and wild rides over the years. They hated each other for most of that time, but that’s another story.

I was seventeen or so when we first met—so young! And I had already endured many of my greatest trials by that tender age.

You should feel sorry for me. But you don’t.

Scribble, scribble. Scratch, scratch. In God’s name, if I had the strength to snatch that pen from your hand and dash it against the wall, I would. Even that is beyond me now. For the moment, at any rate. But you never know. Be on your guard, Father, at all times. You have been warned.

Now. Thévenard. Bless him. We met in Rouen, late in those crazed and dusty weeks. He’d stormed out of his father’s cookhouse in Orléans, vowing to make his mark on the world. And me—well, I hardly know now where I wandered and what I did, and yet in that short time I met the three men who would alter forever the course of my life: Maréchal, d’Albert and, finally, Thévenard. Who can say there is no such thing as fate? Had I not fled Avignon, had I not abandoned my love to her own destiny, had I not sold my soul for a thousand
livres,
I might never have met any of them. I might have been a nun all my life, instead of just pretending, then and now, to be so.

You see? Now I think of it, perhaps I was right, after all—or, rather, perhaps I was not as wrong as I have always thought myself.

No. No. Stop.

This is a conversation I’ve had many times. Although usually there’s nobody listening. This is how it goes. I am in anguish. I am riven by remorse. Then slowly I talk myself out of it, convince myself that destiny took my life in its hands, until at last I feel as if Clara would have wished to be left alone in that inn near Aix, as if she must have forgiven me many years ago for any imagined slight, as if my conscience was clear—has been, all this time.

But not now. Not at the last.

I can’t hide it from myself, nor from you.

If I was lucky enough to meet my mentor and my two dearest friends in the following months, then that is all it was—luck. It was a good grace, a gift I did nothing to deserve. Quite the opposite. I should have given thanks on my knees every day for that providence, but I haven’t.

I should’ve sought her out and begged for forgiveness. Instead I’m telling you, and what good will that do me? You write it down, yes, yes, scribble, scratch—but nobody will ever read these words—she will never read them, and that’s all that matters.

I should have told Thévenard how grateful I was for his companionship, for those long evenings of drunken laughter, for the songs and the stories—but instead we fought like tigers—or maybe kittens—on and off for years. But he knows I love him. I’m sure of it. Only friends as fast as we are could scrap and spat the way we have. We have nearly come to blows many times—we would have, except he knows I will beat him, and he is, among his many charms, an utter coward.

But there were times—my God! I could have picked him up and shaken his teeth from his skull. Or thrown him through a wall—I’ve seen it done to someone once, by a drunken
mousquetaire
in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. He was upset. You can’t blame him. A gaming dispute, I think. An allegation of cheating. Cards. Although the man he threw came off worse. Dead.

Yes, unfortunate. The
mousquetaire
was in all sorts of trouble over it, too, even though it was the other fellow who had been cheating.

You see? I never did that to anyone, tempted though I may have been. Mind you, Gabriel was a heavy man—it might have taken two of me to throw him anywhere at all. But sometimes fury lends you unimagined strength.

Once—
Thésée
, I think it was—I was Minerve and he was annoying. Can’t remember why, but there was always something. We niggled, that’s the word. Played tricks on each other. Invented new and nasty names. Spread vile stories backstage. That sort of thing. We laughed ourselves silly afterwards.

So we met in Rouen, as I said, got drunk, sang a hundred songs until the night watch threatened us with the dungeons, and so we fell into bed. From that moment we were friends—lovers, yes, briefly—get that look off your face—but mostly we were comrades. As my father used to say of his old
mousquetaires
, comrades in arms. Truly we were. We made a pact—to sing in Paris, just as Maréchal had wanted. We promised each other we’d light up the city from the Tuileries to the Bastille.

So we did.

But before I could keep that vow, I had to attend to some business.