Goddess (20 page)

T
HE
P
ALAIS-
R
OYAL.
T
HE SHOW IS OVER
. The crowd spills out of the rue de l’Opéra and onto the forecourt. Someone falls—someone else shoves the guardsmen back. But there’s no room for a fight. It’s always like this. Hundreds of people funnel through a dark passageway. They hold their noses, try not to slip over on the slimy flagstones, and push until they reach the air.

Another evening of
Thésée
: the poetry of Quinault, the magic of Lully. Everyone agrees the Académie was in fine form this evening. The women confer, heads close together, about the costumes, the singers, about Thévenard’s thighs, the magnificent theatrics of La Maupin, Fanchon Moreau’s freckled arms. The men place bets for tomorrow’s wrestling bouts at the Montmartre fair. There’s a great deal of money on a lightweight from the Midi called Séranne. He’s a beast, apparently. Broke an opponent’s neck last month in Lyon. But the money says he’ll be no match for the local lads.

In the corner of the terrace, someone’s talking far too loudly. A man. An enormous man. Dressed as if he’s the richest king in Christendom. Perhaps he is. Who knows? The young blades cluster around him in the hope of a little sport, of an invitation to supper, to cards, to drink.

The Baron de Servan feels their eyes on him as he speaks, knows they are admiring his shoes (too new and pinching a little, but worth every
sou
), his gold-braided coat and the finest silk cravat money can buy. The rings on his fingers. His wig, higher than almost everyone else’s—except, perhaps, Monsieur’s. His cane. His buckles. They admire him. They must. He has spared no expense. He also has a great deal to say.

‘The opera in Venice is paltry compared to ours. I’d give you one Lully to ten Monteverdis. Ten! And the singers there—let me tell you—they have nothing,
nothing
, on ours. Thévenard is the finest baritone on earth. Without doubt. Ugly brute, of course, and not a gentleman. Not at all. Peasants. They are all peasants, of course, these singers.’

The young men laugh. Not at him, surely?

‘Some of the ladies, I grant you, are pretty enough,’ he goes on. ‘I’ve had them all, of course, every one of them—singers, dancers, even the plain ones—sometimes several at once. It is my great fortune to be—not to put too fine a point on it—and that, my friends, is the point, if you take my point. Ha! I am, for reasons, shall we say, of anatomy, irresistible to women. Especially to the women of the Académie. For they have no morals. Only lusts. I am the only man who can satisfy them. So I can assure you, gentlemen, of their peasant nature, their animal tendencies—you have no idea.’

The young men glance around, check who’s listening. A few snigger. It’s gone too far now. Some of the older fellows shout a protest.

‘Good sieur, mind your tongue. Please.’

‘There are ladies within earshot, Baron.’

He doesn’t hear them. He has an audience, a title, new shoes and gold braid and, by God, they will listen to him.

‘The Desmatins sisters are too coarse for my tastes. Goblins. Fishwives. But there is a new face this season who has caught my eye. Oh, yes. The dancer Pérignon. A fine figure, don’t you think?’

‘Oh ho, Baron,’ says one man, slightly more drunk than the others. ‘You set your sights very high. Mademoiselle Pérignon is a good girl, from an old family.’

‘There are no good girls in the Académie.’

The young Comte du Saint-Rémy steps forward, whispers, ‘Take more care in what you say, sieur.’

No hope of that. Not tonight. Not ever.

‘I am rich,’ says Servan. ‘I could buy her—any of them—like that. But I’m a hunting man, my friends. I like a chase, and that filly Pérignon—’

‘Enough!’ The shout comes from the shadows, from the portico. ‘You have said enough, filth.’

Baron de Servan waves impatiently at the interruption. ‘That gentleman does not appreciate my humour.’

The shadows ripple and a figure steps into the half-light. Someone tall, lithe, sneering.

‘Really, I admire the patience of these gentlemen.’

‘Are you speaking to me, sieur? You dare to disagree?’

‘You are a foul liar, I say!’

‘What?’ says the Baron, peering closer at the stranger. ‘Who are you, to speak to me in this manner?’

‘The Chevalier de Raincy, more gentleman than you are, and ready to teach you a lesson. And you?’

‘I am the Baron de Servan.’ He will not bow in the face of such impudence. ‘No doubt you have heard my name.’

‘No, never.’

‘It will be written on your headstone.’

‘Such fantasies!’

Servan feels the circle of men sidle away from him. He has no choice but to accept the challenge.

‘You have declared yourself my enemy, Chevalier. My seconds will call on you in the morning to make arrangements.’

‘I will await them eagerly.’ The Chevalier de Raincy bows deeply and slips back into darkness.

Baron de Servan snaps his fingers at the man closest to him. ‘Saint-Rémy! Will you act as second for me in this matter?’

‘But, Baron, we are barely acquainted.’

‘You dare deny me this? Will you, too, insult me in front of so many?’

‘Forgive me. I will act for you, if that’s what you wish,’ says Saint-Rémy. ‘But, Baron, you should know—’

‘I have heard enough. Find out where that scoundrel lives, then come to me to set the terms for this duel.’

Saint-Rémy can do nothing but bow and take his leave. He knows perfectly well where the Chevalier de Raincy lives—and it’s nowhere near the Château du Raincy.

In a tavern in the Marais, two people argue as if they are husband and wife. Both handsome. Both armed. Both just a little drunk.

D’Albert slams a fist into the table. ‘Chevalier de Raincy? What were you thinking?’

‘It was the first name that came into my head.’

‘An odd choice, Émilie, you must admit.’

‘I sang there once. For the Princess Palatine. Monsieur arranged it for her birthday. I’d just been thinking about it during the afternoon. Gorgeous gardens.’

‘We need to discuss this challenge of yours.’

She’s not listening. ‘You know the stables at Raincy are almost as fine as Versailles?’

‘You judge all chateaux by their stables?’

‘Of course.’ She takes another swig from a bottle. ‘It’s what I know best.’

‘Stop changing the subject. This oaf Servan obviously doesn’t realise who you are.’

‘All the better.’

‘For whom?’

‘Everyone.’

‘Please.’ D’Albert leans forward. He tries to catch her eye but she looks away. ‘Let me tell his seconds. They’ll call it off.’

‘I don’t want to call it off. I challenged him. I’d do it again, too.’

‘But, Émilie, apart from anything else he’s a Goliath.’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ she says. ‘I’m not wrestling him.’

‘But his reach—his sword arm is twice as long as mine.’

‘You think I’ll lose?’

D’Albert is silent.

She puts her hand on his arm. ‘Joseph? Do you?’

‘Of course not.’ He doesn’t sound sure.

Julie sits up straight, puts the bottle on the floor. ‘He’s a rich, loud-mouthed brute and someone has to teach him a lesson.’

‘But why you?’

‘You weren’t there,’ she says. ‘You should have heard him. Wait until I tell Thévenard. He’d rip him limb from limb.’

‘Servan has a mouth. Everyone knows that.’

‘The things he said. Nobody else would speak. Well, not many. To them, Mademoiselle Pérignon is just another whore from the Opéra. Like me. Like Fanchon.’

‘She’s not like you,’ says d’Albert. ‘None of them are.’

‘They are exactly like me. Women. Girls. Trying to get through our lives. Make a penny or two. Fend off disease and hunger and bastards in our bellies for long enough—just a couple of years—to save a few
sous
. Marry well, if we’re lucky. Poorhouse if we’re not. Our only options.’

‘Not you, Émilie.’

She struggles to her feet and stands there, swaying slightly. ‘Yes. Me. All of us. Marie-Louise fluttering her eyelashes at the Dauphin. Fanchon flitting from man to man. Ballet girls letting that prick Duménil put his filthy hand up their petticoats. Me—’

‘You never let me give you any money!’ D’Albert reaches out to steady her, tries to pull her back onto the seat.

She shrugs him off. ‘I’m not talking about coins changing hands.’

‘I’d give you anything you asked. You know that.’

‘I do. That’s why I never ask.’

‘What’s any of that got to do with Servan?’

‘He insulted us all.’ Another gulp of wine. ‘Not just Mademoiselle Pérignon.’

‘He’s a cretin. I could kill him myself.’

‘After I’m finished.’

‘He’s not a gentleman, certainly,’ says d’Albert. ‘He must have bought his baronetcy.’

‘Not the first to do so.’

‘Émilie, he’s not worth the risk.’

‘He may not be,’ she says. ‘But Mademoiselle Pérignon is.’

‘You are determined?’

At last she lowers herself down onto the chair, almost misses, straightens up in the hope he didn’t notice. ‘Speak to his people. Thévenard will act as my other second. You two can make all the arrangements. I don’t care what you decide. Just make it soon. He has the look of a coward about him and he may vanish before I can fight him.’

‘But, Émilie—’

‘Go now.’

Elsewhere in the city, the Baron plays cards by candlelight.

Jacob du Saint-Rémy paces the room until Servan snaps, ‘What’s wrong with you? You’re acting like an old fusspot.’

‘This Chevalier de Raincy …’

‘He’s a fool, obviously. Soon to be a dead fool.’

‘In fact—well, it will sound silly—but …’

‘Out with it!’ Servan gives up on his game and slaps his cards down on the tabletop.

Saint-Rémy stops pacing, takes a breath. ‘It’s not a man,’ he says. ‘Not a chevalier. It is the singer, Mademoiselle de Maupin.’

‘A woman?’ Servan laughs. ‘Insulted me to my face, then challenged me in public?’

‘Yes. So it would seem.’

Servan’s laughter fades. ‘Does everyone know?’

‘Probably.’

‘Then what am I to do? I can’t fight a woman, surely.’

‘It’s not unheard of, at least in her case.’

‘Really?’

‘There was an incident …’

‘Extraordinary.’

‘A few years ago now, at a ball at the Palais-Royal.’ Saint-Rémy will never forget it. Nobody will.

‘A precedent?’ Servan takes up his cards again and starts shuffling.

‘Yes, although in that case she—’

‘And her opponent was a nobleman?’

‘Yes. In fact—’

‘Excellent. Then we proceed.’

‘My dear Baron, I should warn you—’

‘We need to make arrangements. Duelling ground. Weapons.’

Saint-Rémy bows his head. Nobody can say he didn’t try. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘I choose pistols.’

‘I see.’

There is a long silence.

‘You don’t approve?’ says Servan, although it’s clear in Saint-Rémy’s face.

‘Forgive me, but it may appear churlish. Everyone knows La Maupin is a swordswoman, not a marksman.’

‘In that case she shouldn’t have insulted me. She took the risk.’

‘But she would never have dreamed it would be anything but swords.’

‘Then she can apologise,’ says the Baron with a smile. ‘Back down.’

‘She can’t do that. Everyone knows what happened. She would be dishonoured.’

‘So? Honestly, Saint-Rémy, you talk about her as if she was a gentleman. She’s a whore from the Opéra.’

‘Very well, I’ll try to talk her out of it.’ Saint-Rémy could not sound more reluctant.

‘Don’t tell anyone I said that.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Anyway, I don’t care if she can’t shoot. I’ll happily blast her smiling face off.’

‘Servan!’

‘What?’

‘This is a woman you’re threatening.’

‘I’ll shoot you, too, if you don’t stop nagging me.’

‘If you prefer, you may choose another second.’

‘Oh, shut up. Dawn. The riverbank, near the Pont Neuf. Pistols. Or an apology.’

The woman does not back down or offer an apology. Her second, d’Albert, argues for a few minutes on the subject of the pistols but it’s no use. The challenger forfeits the right to choose the weapon. There’s no way around it. Tradition must be followed. Honour must be upheld. Pistols must be used.

When Julie hears of it, she simply nods. ‘You’ll have to lend me some, Joseph.’

‘You don’t even own a pair of pistols?’

‘Why would I? Nasty, noisy things. Never had any use for them.’

‘Never?’ D’Albert shouts it. ‘D’you mean you have never duelled with pistols?’

‘I know how they work. I used to clean my father’s musket.’

‘Émilie, please, an apology.’ He grabs at her hand. ‘Call it off.’

‘Don’t be absurd.’

‘He’s a famous marksman. Hunts all winter. Deadly.’

‘So you keep telling me.’ She slips free of his grip.

He sighs. Loudly. ‘That’s because you won’t listen.’

‘It’s boring.’

‘I just don’t want you to get killed.’

‘Oh. That.’ She shrugs. ‘It doesn’t really matter.’

‘It does to me.’

‘You’re sweet,’ she says. ‘Now, lend me some pistols.’

Almost dawn. The river’s low, edged with sludge and vile as a cesspit.

D’Albert groans in the darkness. ‘Absurd choice of duelling ground. The man’s a fool.’

‘I told you so.’ Julie gazes up at the outline of the city against a softening sky. Her city.

‘The gendarmes at the Conciergerie will be here in minutes,’ says d’Albert. ‘As soon as they hear a shot.’

‘At least the blood will run away quickly, into the water.’ She kicks aside a plank of rotting wood.

‘Émilie, in the name of God—’

‘In fact, you can just roll my body into the river and save on the expense of a funeral.’

‘That’s not funny.’

‘It wasn’t a joke,’ she says, and he knows it. Feels it.

A carriage pulls to a halt on the bridge.

‘Remember what I told you—’

‘Yes, Joseph.’

‘Fire as soon as you see my hand drop.’

‘Yes, I heard you the first twelve times.’