Louisa Rawlings (4 page)

“Oh, Tintin. Come home. We’ll sell a bit of land to pay your debts. And then you’ll live the life of a
campagnard
, a country gentleman beloved of your tenants.”
 

“Sell a piece of Sans-Souci? That your mother loved so? And live the sterile life of a country gentleman? Without excitement? Without danger? Without an
amour
? A duel from time to time to keep the blood stirred? Never!”
 

“Then perhaps Bleyle can sponsor you. Obtain a minor position here at Versailles. A small pension.
Something
to bring in a few sols now and again.”
 

“I don’t know why you trouble yourself so,
ma petite.
We’ll manage. We always do! Now, I refuse to talk about money anymore! Go off to your tête-à-tête, and don’t fret.”
 

“I have no tête-à-tête. I said that only to spirit you away from the gaming table.”
 

“I’m sorry there was no assignation. I should like to see you fall in love. A handsome cavalier… It would please me very much.”
 

She shook her head. “Oh, Tintin, one of us has to be practical! You know I intend to make an advantageous marriage. It’s the only way to save you from yourself. No one marries for love!”
 

“Your mother and I did.”
 

“I’m sure, once I’m married, I’ll find it easy enough to love my husband. And I certainly intend to choose a man of honor, a man I can respect.”
 

“Ah, well. You pick him out, and I’ll make the arrangements. But I scarcely like it! Whereas,
love
…”
 

“You were born in the wrong time, Tintin. No one marries for love today. I’ll leave the romance for you.”
 

Her father grinned, his eyes twinkling devilishly. “How well you know me! To speak truth, I’ve just met the most charming of creatures.”
 

“Married?”
 

“Widowed. And very rich, to boot. I could persuade myself to marry her. But only if my passion ripens into love.”
 

Rouge crossed herself. “May it be so,” she breathed. “Go find your lady this very minute and court her.”
 

“I told you, she’s a widow. I’ll bed her first, to see if she’s worth the trouble. Besides, she has an ill-tempered brother. I fear I shall need to win him over as well.”
 

“Then begin at once, in God’s name!”
 

“No. There’s still the matter of your supper. And François’, too. That’s more important. Here. Take the four louis now and go to a dressmaker. I’m off to see my kitchen wench. We’ll meet here at six.” He turned to François, who had been watching him with rapt devotion. “What are you doing here, when the sun is shining? Is there not a pageboy who would enjoy a game of bowls in the kitchen garden?”
 

The boy nodded his head vigorously and grinned at the prospect.
 

“No,” said Rouge firmly. “Not all afternoon, François. You must spend at least an hour with your lessons. I promised your mother, when you came to our employ.”
 

“Oh, Marie-Rouge! Let the boy be. I never liked
my
lessons.” Tintin’s large brown eyes were filled with supplication. He draped a protective arm about François’ shoulders.
 

Relenting, Rouge began to laugh. “What am I to do with you? Do you never think of the morrow? Very well. Off to your games.
Both
of you. I’ll see you at six of the clock.”
 

She spent the rest of the afternoon with a dressmaker in the town outside the palace, haggling over the cost of her new finery. In the end, softened by Rouge’s effusive flattery, the
couturière
agreed to throw in a pair of pink kid gloves for the price of the petticoat and trim. When Rouge returned to her father’s garret room, she found that Tintin’s serving wench had already laid out a sumptuous feast, and was demanding a kiss from him as a prelude to future delights. Tintin shrugged helplessly to Rouge, kissed the maid twice, pinched her on the bottom for good measure, and sent her—squealing with happiness—back to her kitchen.
 

“Till later, my sweet.” He affected the face of a martyr. “Come, Rouge. Sit you down and enjoy what your dear father has bartered his manhood for!”
 

Rouge surveyed the table laden with bowls and platters of the most appetizing food her hungry eyes had ever beheld. “So much food! Either the girl’s a fool, Tintin, or you have promised her the moon!”
 

He cast his eyes heavenward and sighed. “A lingering visit to the land of
amour.
But I shall endure for you, my child.”
 

She giggled and pulled a chair up to the table. “I think you had better eat a great deal yourself, Tintin. You’ll need the strength!”
 

Chrétien put aside his brown wig, scratched his own short brown curls—now graying at the temples—and removed his plush coat. He motioned for François to sit beside him and share in their feast, then piled his own plate with a fine fillet of beef, a roasted hen, a galantine of chicken. “Alas! No wine. I shall give her one kiss less for that, the little baggage!”
 

François jumped up from his place. “If you will, monsieur…” He burrowed in a small cupboard and produced a straw-covered bottle. “I didn’t play at bowls for the sport alone!”
 

Rouge sighed. "Gambling! Name of God, Tintin, are you leading the boy down your wicked path?”
 

“I think it rather clever of him. Where did the pageboy get the wine, François?”
 

The young eyes were innocent beneath their shock of yellow hair. “He stole it, the blackguard! Half a dozen jugs, that he tried to sell me. Of course I refused to buy stolen goods!”
 

“Naturellement!”
 

“But you didn’t mind suggesting a wager…” said Rouge.
 

François looked hurt. “I won it honestly.”
 

“And the pageboy?”
 

“He made the mistake of offering a bottle to the valet of the man from whom he had stolen the wine. The last I saw of him, he was taking a cane across his bare bum!”
 

“Now, by heaven,” said Rouge, “I’ll promise you the same, if you don’t mend your ways!” She turned to her father. “He’s
your
servant, Tintin. It’s up to you…”

Chrétien had been sipping at the wine. Now he looked at Rouge, his soft brown eyes filled with laughter. “It doesn’t taste any less sweet for being ill-gotten.” He tried to look serious. “However, I’ll give the boy a stern reprimand. Tomorrow. Or the next day.”
 

Laughing, Rouge threw up her hands in despair. “I see I can’t win.
Eh bien!
Pour me a bit of that wine. I might as well enjoy François’ winnings with you!”
 

Supper was a merry affair. Tintin regaled them both with funny stories until Rouge couldn’t decide which brought her more pleasure: the food or the laughter. At length, sated, they leaned back in their chairs and finished the last of the wine, while François carefully covered and put away what little food they hadn’t managed to finish.
 

“For tomorrow,” said Rouge.
 

Tintin shook his head. “You’re just like your mother. Far too sensible and practical for a man like me!”
 

“Yet she married you.”
 

“She had no choice. I abducted her.”
 

“What? She never told me.”
 

“She always claimed to be shamed by the whole thing. But I suspect she enjoyed it, for all of that. It had all been arranged, of course. Without her knowledge. We had met in Paris, fallen in love, agreed to marry. The contract had been drawn up between my father and hers. The wedding meats were cooked and awaiting the arrival of the bride at Sans-Souci. But with the help of several of my friends…”

“Hellions all, I have no doubt!” interrupted Rouge.
 

“Indeed. But I had her father’s approval. We stormed the coach that was bringing them to Sans-Souci; I dragged her out, kicking and screaming, and tossed her across my saddle. I spirited her away, and refused to bring her to Sans-Souci and the waiting priest until she agreed to pay the ransom.”
 

“Which was…”
 

Chrétien chuckled. “Never mind. But never was ransom more willingly paid, or gratefully received.”
 

Rouge smiled tenderly at her father. “What a foolish, romantic scheme. Small wonder she never told of it! But I’m sure that, in her heart, she found joy in the memory.”
 

Tintin looked away, his eyes filling with sudden tears. “Devil take me, but I loved that woman,” he whispered. He blinked and cleared his throat. “Now, daughter,” he said, smiling, “let me see if you’ve learned at last to play
trictrac
better than your mother!”
 

She gulped, stilling the sudden rush of emotion to her breast. Dear Tintin.
 

They laughed throughout the backgammon game, and, despite her protests, Tintin let her win, then denied having done so. Rouge insisted on a rematch, but as they were setting up their colored stones there was a soft tap on the door. Rouge put down her dice. “That will be your night’s work, or I miss my guess. What of François?”
 

“I can sleep in the passageway. I’ve done it before,” piped up the boy.
 

“Good night, then.” Rouge picked up a taper, lit it on Tintin’s candle, and shielded it with her hand as she passed through the connecting door to her own chamber. Her room was even smaller than Tintin’s: a cold cell sparsely furnished with a narrow bed, a small table, a stool. She sighed. Sans-Souci was old and in need of repair, but its meanest stable had more warmth than this cheerless room.
 

She lit her candle from the taper and began to undress. As she worked, she was conscious of the sounds that came from Tintin’s room next door: laughter and whispering and tender cries which could be heard quite clearly through the thin walls. She put down her comb and stared into the flame of the candle. How simple it was for Tintin. He fell in and out of love like a child, glorying in each new affair, each passing infatuation, each casual night of love. And the romantic abduction of her mother on their wedding day… She smiled to herself. How like Tintin, to declare his love in such a flamboyant way, for all the world to see!
 

Ah, well. She laughed softly.
She
had never given herself, had never fallen in love. Nor ever would, she supposed. Let her father have his indulgences; it was up to her to make a good match and save him—and Sans-Souci—if she could.
 

She blew out her candle and pulled back the coverlet of her bed. She frowned. She’d forgotten to close the casement; the room would be cold and damp by morning. Why the king had chosen to build his splendid palace on the site of a marsh, she would never understand. She crossed to the window. On an impulse, she knelt and leaned her arms on the sill, gazing out into the night. Here and there in the vast park she could see couples strolling, their way lighted by torches set along the paths. Lovers, who stopped now and again to kiss. A sudden breeze blew in at the window, caressing her cheek. It smelled of spring, the sweetness of rebirth, the promise of summer. She felt a yearning to be down there in that park with a man who whispered soft words of love and held her in his arms and kissed her. A man who asked for no more than her own love in return. A love that would burn more brightly than those torches.
 

Then Tintin laughed beyond the closed door—a carefree laugh that snapped her back to reality. No! What was she thinking of? She
must
marry to their advantage. There was no other way. Love, if it came, would be a boon.
 

But, oh! how her heart ached. She bent her head to her arms. In the soft darkness, with no one to see or hear, she allowed herself the luxury of tears.
 

Chapter Two

“Lazy child, will you sleep away the day?”
 

Rouge grunted and shook off the insistent hand on her shoulder. “Go away, Tintin,” she mumbled.
 

“But I’ve brought you breakfast.”
 

She yawned and sat up, blinking at the morning sun that streamed through the garret window. She smiled at her father, taking from him a large sweetcake studded with currants. “Will wonders never cease? I was prepared to content myself with the remains of last night’s supper—cold and stale. Where did you get this?”
 

“At his invitation, I took breakfast with Monsieur de Bleyle. I told him that my pious Marie-Rouge had not allowed herself a sweetcake since before Lent. He insisted on giving me a basketful for your enjoyment.” Chrétien laughed. “I think he’s taken a fancy to me, as a jolly companion, since the night we…entertained two
soubrettes
.”
 

Rouge frowned. “The lecherous pig.”
 

“Have a little charity, my sweet. Your own father wasn’t entirely blameless that night!”