Louisa Rawlings (48 page)

Arsène. He was the only way out of her dilemma. And the sooner the better. She marveled at how cold and cunning she had become. The scheming, deceitful courtesan Pierre had thought her. Oh, God! Pierre. She forced herself to put him from her mind. She must do what she must do. She waited until she was alone with Arsène that night, strolling in the torch-lit gardens. It was warm; she dabbed at her forehead with the silk handkerchief he had given her so long ago. He smiled, pleased to see his gift, and kissed her gently; then he plucked a sprig of fragrant honeysuckle from a nearby hedge and tucked it in her bosom.
 

“Do you want me, Arsène?” she asked softly.
 

He looked surprised. “My sweet angel! You know I do.”
 

“Enough to marry me?”
 

“Yes.”
 

“I’ll speak plain, then. I don’t want to hurt you. But I don’t love you. Perhaps I can learn to someday, but not now.” She hesitated, then plunged on. As long as she was being so cold-blooded, she might as well be completely honest. “Tintin has debts. Rather large ones. I should want you to pay them as a condition of marriage.”
 

“I don’t begrudge the price,” he said hoarsely. “I scarcely know my own heart. Only my passions. And I want you! I’m obsessed with you. I burn to possess you, whatever the price. But if we marry, whether you love me or not, I’d expect to be welcomed into your bed. Not merely tolerated.”
 

She nodded. “I understand. And I agree.” Even at this moment, she couldn’t keep her thoughts from Pierre. Perhaps, after she and Arsène were married, she could write to him, tell him of Tintin’s debts, the threat of prison. Tell him how much she had loved him. No! What was she thinking of? It would be madness. He would surely come to her then. And Arsène? God knows what he would do in a jealous rage!
 

Arsène laughed softly. “You agree. Listen to us. Like two ministers at a parley. But…I wonder. Would you grant me the last favors now? Become my
mistress
if I were to pay those debts?”
 

She stared at him. “What?”
 

He shrugged. “You’re surprised? I told you I want you more than I’ve ever wanted any woman. But love? I don’t know. Would you become my mistress under those terms?”
 

She frowned, thinking. It made sense. Tintin would be free, and so would she. Free eventually to go back to Pierre, if he’d still take her. She felt her heart curdling with bitterness. If he’d still want her. By that time she would have become the contemptible creature he had at first taken her for. And Torcy’s “whore,” fulfilling the minister’s assumptions of her. She sighed. She no longer cared what became of her. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’d become your mistress.”
 

He looked at her, his eyes glittering in the light of the torches. He shook his head. “No, by God. You’ll marry me. I want you to be mine. For always!” He pulled the handkerchief from her hand almost languidly and looped it about her wrists. Before she could stop him, he had tied it tightly and pulled her to him, his mouth close to hers. “I’ll never free you for some other man’s pleasure,” he growled. His other hand went around her neck, caressing the softness of her naked flesh. “Marie-Rouge,” he murmured, and kissed her hard.
 

She shivered at the sensuousness of his touch, his burning mouth.
 

He lifted his head from hers and unbound her hands, kissing them passionately. “When will you marry me? Next week? The week after?”
 

She took a moment to recover, her heart pounding. “Oh! I near forgot!” she said at last. “I can’t. Not now. I’ve been summoned to Marly.”
 

He swore softly. “For how long?”
 

“The whole of August.”
 

“Damn! I suppose I could arrange an invitation for myself, but once there I wouldn’t be able to leave until the king gave his permission. And I have work to do at Rochenard, my château.”
 

“It’s just as well. I’d like to speak with Tintin first and get his blessing.”
 

He smiled ruefully. “Well, I suppose the dog days of August are the time for languor, not passion. It’s cool and pleasant at Rochenard. I’ll take my ease and dream of you, my sweet.”
 

“When I return from Marly, I’ll go at once to Sans-Souci to talk with my father.”
 

“Will you send me your answer then? Or must I besiege Sans-Souci?”
 

She laughed. “I think the answer will be yes. In which case, the besieger will be a welcome victor.”
 

He pulled her back into his arms. His kiss—plundering her mouth, urging her surrender—was a burning reminder of his passion. She felt an answering thrill. And something more: a stirring of hope. Perhaps, even without Pierre, there might be happiness for her someday.
 

Marly was a charming château, just to the northwest of Paris, with a sweeping view of the countryside and the river Seine in the distance. It had been built as a country retreat by Louis when the size and formality of Versailles had begun to weary him. The central building was a beautiful white château, approached from long avenues of trees and several reflecting pools that opened one upon the other. On either side of the pools was a line of six small pavilions, graceful two-storied buildings connected by colonnades; the twelve pavilions were divided into two separate
appartements
for Louis’s guests. No expense had been spared: each
appartement
,
draped and furnished in crimson satin, contained all the personal necessities that a visitor might need. Rouge found herself as enchanted as Emilie by the loveliness of the place—the gardens, the lakes, the brightly painted statues and fountains and façades. Small wonder that the courtiers, approaching the king with their petitions for money or favors as he made his way through the corridors of Versailles, were often heard to murmur: “Sire, Marly?” with an air of hopeful expectation!
 

The days passed with more serenity than Rouge would have imagined. Marly was beautiful, Torcy was far away, and Tintin’s debts would soon be paid. If she had doubts about her marriage to Arsène, she put them out of her mind. Except for those times in the misty coolness of dawn when she awoke and thought with longing of her days at the mill, she supposed she was happy. She strolled along the shady avenues, or spent hours of quiet contentment in some dim arbor, a cup of chocolate and a book for company. At night, in the octagonal salon of the château, Louis entertained his guests, bestowing little gifts upon the ladies, playing pranks on the men. To celebrate the Duc de Bourgogne’s birthday, they were treated to a brilliant fireworks display. Afterward, the whole company trooped into the château for a sumptuous banquet at which the king, quite forgetting his age and his customary dignity, tossed pellets of bread at the women and laughed uproariously when his granddaughter, the Duchesse de Bourgogne, proceeded to throw them back at him. He took special note of Rouge, inviting her to sit at his side at several meals. After the third such invitation, she no longer had her quiet moments alone; the courtiers, eager to ingratiate themselves with Louis’s sudden new favorite, followed her around from morning till night.
 

One afternoon toward the end of the month, she was out in the garden with her usual devotees, playing pall-mall. She glanced up. One of the Swiss guards was hurrying across the lawn toward her. “Mademoiselle,” he said, his thick accent hissing over the word, “
Iss
now a man to
s
see you.”
 

She looked at him with surprise. She hadn’t expected anyone to call upon her here; Arsène had promised to wait until the beginning of September for his answer. She murmured an apology to her fellow players, handed her mallet and wooden ball to a footman, and followed the guard to a table set up under one of the colonnades. Her heart sank as Torcy stood up from his chair and bowed to her. She had almost forgotten her ties to him. “Mademoiselle de Tournières,” he said.
 

“I thought we weren’t to be seen together, Monsieur de Torcy.”
 

He indicated another chair. “Please. Sit down.” He smiled and waited until the guard had nodded politely and retired. “How have you been?”
 

“I have no gossip for you, if that’s what you’ve come for. Alas, either nothing happens here at Marly, or I’ve been too content in this pastoral setting to notice it.”
 

“I came only to give you my compliments. Once again I’ve underestimated your talents. You’ve managed to outwit me, but I hope I’m a gracious loser.”
 

“I? What do you mean?”
 

He shook his head. “That charming look of innocence. You do it well. I’ll be sorry to lose you.”
 

“Monsieur de Torcy, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
 

“Your father’s debts. The moneylender in Paris informs me that the debt has been paid. Down to the last sol.”
 

“Sweet Jesu,” she whispered.
 

“Do you mean you didn’t know? I thought surely it was your doing. I haven’t forgot the gown you forced me to pay for!”
 

“This is the first I’ve heard of it. Upon my word.”
 

He shrugged. “Well, it matters not to me. I only know I’ve lost a good agent. I release you, mademoiselle.”
 

“And what about the charges of cheating?”
 

He smiled ruefully. “I confess it now, mademoiselle. I never had proof.” He leaned back and tapped his fingers together. “Which is not to say that I think you and your father didn’t cheat. I have no doubt you did. I simply can’t prove it. Go your way in peace.”
 

The debt was paid. Sweet Mother of God. She was only now beginning to realize what that meant. She was free! Free to refuse Arsène. Free to rush to Pierre’s arms and vow to live the life of a miller’s wife, if only he would love her again! She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, struggling to hold back the tears. Tears of joy, of blessed release after all the months of worry and tension. She opened her eyes. Torcy was staring at her. “Does it surprise you, Monsieur de Torcy,” she said, her voice trembling, “that a creature of frivolity, a coquette, should have deep emotions?”
 

“Mademoiselle,” he said gently, “nothing about you surprises me anymore.”
 

She gulped and sniffed back her tears. There would be time for happy weeping later. There were more practical matters to be dealt with first. “I don’t know how my father managed to pay off his debt. I should like to go home and find out.”
 

“And you want his majesty’s leave to retire from Marly.”
 

“If it pleases him.”
 

“Well, I suppose I can arrange it. The king will be disappointed, I know. He speaks quite warmly of you, your wit and charm. And he has a long memory. He hasn’t forgotten your father’s bravery at Steinkirk. He asked me only last week if the Marquis de Tournières was still receiving his pension.”
 

“Not for several years now.”
 

“So I understand. But in honor of his majesty’s birthday in September, as is his wont, he will remember his friends. Your father will be given a yearly pension of ten thousand livres. Not a princely sum, but if he can learn moderation at the gaming tables, not insignificant either.” He frowned. “There’s one more thing. What has passed between us is
never
to be spoken of henceforth. I summoned you directly today because this will be the first and the last time we shall be seen talking together. I trust I don’t have to insure your silence with a threat.”
 

She looked at him, half angry, half amused at his words. After all she’d been through! “With what can you threaten me?” she asked, laughing.
 

He was not amused. “I can still have you arrested on trumped-up charges to guarantee your silence,” he said coldly. “You might go free in time, but you’d suffer in prison until you proved your innocence!”
 

“Put your mind at rest, monsieur. I’ll not say a word to anyone. The sooner I forget you, the happier I shall be!”
 

They said their farewells. She hurried across the lawn and rushed into her little pavilion; she hugged Emilie about the waist and danced for joy. “Oh, Emilie!” she cried, laughing and sobbing at the same time. “Oh, Emilie!”
 

The maid eyed her as though she’d gone mad. “Mademoiselle Rouge, you’re in love, or I don’t know what love is!”
 

She nodded, too overcome to speak.
 

“The miller? The one you were away with?”
 

“Yes.”
 

“And he was the one that Monsieur de Saint-Esprit”—Emilie spat on the floor as she said his name—“had so cruelly whipped?”
 

“Oh, Emilie, don’t remind me of that,” she said, bursting into fresh tears.
 

“Are we leaving here and going to him?”
 

“I want you to pack. But we’re going to Sans-Souci first.” And then Pierre, she thought, weeping with happiness. And then Pierre.