Angelique - Part 7. Versailles Chapter 4 - Read online

THAT NIGHT, Angelique could not sleep. In the morning she attended Mass. On her way back she was very calm. She had come to no decision, however, and when in the afternoon the hour of the promenade arrived and she stepped into her carriage, she did not yet know what she was going to do. •
But she had taken special care with her toilet.
Smoothing her silks and taffetas, she scolded herself, all alone in her coach. Why was she wearing today her new dress with three alternate skirts—chestnut brown, autumn leaves, and tender green? A gossamer- fine gold embroidery, set off by pearls, covered, as if with a glittering net¬work of twigs, the top-skirt, dress-mantle and bodice. The bee on the collar and cuffs, tied with green, reproduced the pattern of the embroidery. Angelique had had the lace specially made for her in the workshops of Alcn^on, according to a design by Monsieur de Moyne, the decorator of the royal households. Angelique had initially reserved this outfit, at once sumptuous and austere, for the gatherings of great ladies such as those given by Madame d’Albret, where conversation tried to keep clear of frivolities. Angelique knew that her dress was wonderfully becoming to her complexion and to her eyes though it aged her a little.
But why had she put it on to go fora promenade on the Cours? Was she hoping to dazzle the impervious Philippe, or to inspire confidence by the severity of her attire? . . . She fanned'herself nervously to cool the waves of heat that mounted to her checks.
Chrysanthemum puckered her moist little muzzle and cast a baffled glance at her mistress.
“I think Гт going to make a fool of myself,” the young woman said to her, sadly. “But I cannot give him up. No, really, I can’t.”
Then, to the little dog’s great surprise, she closed her eyes and let herself drop against the back of the coach as if she had lost all her strength.
On reaching the approaches to the Tuilcries, Angelique revived abruptly. With sparkling eyes she picked up the tooled little mirror that hung from her belt and surveyed her make-up. Black eyelids, red lips. That was all she permitted herself. She made no endeavour to whiten her complexion, having finally realised that her warm-tinted skin attracted more com¬pliments than all the fashionable experiments in white plaster. Her teeth, carefully rubbed with genista-blossom powder and rinsed with burnt wine, had a moist sparkle.
She smiled at herself.
She took Chrysanthemum under her arm and, holding her dress-mantle up with one hand, passed through the gate of the Tuilerics. For a second she told herself that if Philippe wasn’t there she’d give up the fight. But he was there. She saw him near the Big Flower-bed, with the Prince de Conde, who was holding forth in his favourite spot where he liked to display himself to the curious.
Angelique stepped boldly towards the group. She knew suddenly that since fate had led Philippe to the Tuileries, she would accomplish what she had set out to do.
The afternoon was mild and fresh. A brief downpour, a short while ago, had darkened the gravel and polished the first leaves on the trees.
Angelique passed, nodding and smiling. She told herself with annoy¬ance that her dress clashed horribly with the suit Philippe was wearing. He, who was always dressed in pale colours, was sporting an extraordinary peacock-blue coat with buttonholes thick with gold embroideries and with no interstices. Ever in the vanguard of fashion, he had already adopted the new fashion of full skirting, which the sword pushed up at the back.
His cuffs were beautiful, but the ‘canons’ were practically non-existent, and liis trunk-hose tightly fitted his knees. Those who still wore a rhinegravc blushed on meeting him. Handsome scarlet stockings with gold comers matched the red heels of his diamond-buckled leather shoes. Under his arm Philippe carried a small beaver hat, so fine-haired that it looked like old polished silver. His plumes were sky-blue. With his blond wig cascading over his shoulders, Philippe du Plessis-Bellicre was like a beautiful bird rearing up on his spurs.
Angelique cast her eyes around for the figure of the Lamoignon girl, but her pitiful rival was not there. With a sigh of relief, she walked briskly up to the Prince de Conde, who made a show of lavishing upon her, whenever they met, a disappointed and resigned affection.
“Well, then, my lady-love!” he sighed, rubbing his long nose against Angelique’s forehead. “Cruel love, will you do us the honour of sharing our carriage for a drive along the Cours?”
Angelique uttered a little cry. Then she feigned casting an embarrassed glance at Philippe and murmured:
“May Your Highness pardon me, but Monsieur du Plessis has already invited me for the promenade.”
“A pox on those feathered young cockerels!” growled the Prince. “Hey! Marquis, will you be presumptuous enough to retain for long one of the most beautiful ladies in the capital for your private and exclusive use?”
“May God preserve me, Monseigneur,” replied the young man, who, obviously, had not overheard the dialogue and did not know which lady was referred to.
“Very well! You may take her away. I grant her to you. But in future deign to come down from your cloud in time to reflect that you are not the only cock of the walk and that others too, are entitled to the most sparkling smile in Paris.”
“I am taking good note, Monseigneur,” the courtier assured him, sweeping the sand with his azure plume.
Angelique, after a deep curtsy to the company, placed her little hand in Philippe’s and led him away. Poor Philippe! Why did people seem to fear him? He seemed so disarming, on the contrary, with his haughty absent-mindedness.
She dropped her eyes and watched, with throbbing heart, Philippe’s sure and magnificently poised step crush the wet gravel under his red heels. No nobleman could place his foot as he did, nobody had as beautifully shaped legs. ‘Not even the King . . .* thought the young woman. But in order to judge accurately she would have to see the King a little closer, and tliis required going to Versailles. She would go to Versailles! Just like this, with her hand in Philippe’s, she would walk up the royal gallery. A crossfire of eyes at Court would pick out every detail of her marvellous clothes. She would stop at a few steps’ distance from the King —“Madame la Marquise du Plessis-Belliere ”
Her fingers clenched a little. Philippe then said with sullen surprise:
“I still don’t understand why His Highness imposed your presence upon
“Because he thought it would please you. You know that he is even fonder of you than of the Due. You are the son of his warrior’s dis¬position.”
She added, casting a coaxing glance at him:
“Does my presence irk you to such a degree? Were you expecting someone else?”
“No! But I had no intention of going to the Cours tonight.”
She did not dare to ask why. There might be no particular reason. With Philippe, it was often like that. His decisions had no serious significance, but nobody dared to question him.
On the Cours there were few strollers. A smell of fresh wood and mushrooms pervaded the air under the shady dome of its tall trees.
As she stepped into Philippe’s carriage, Angelique noticed the horse¬cloth with its silver fringes that almost swept the ground. Where had he found the money for this latest elegance? As far as she knew, he was already deep in debt. Was this the result of Judge Lamoignon’s generosity towards his future son-in-law?
Never had Angelique found Philippe’s silence so hard to bear. Impatiently she feigned an interest in Chrysanthemum’s capers or in the carriages they passed. Several times she was about to open her mouth, but the young man’s imperturbable profile discouraged her. His eyes gazing into space, he was slowly moving his cheeks as he sucked a fennel lozenge. Angelique said to herself that she would make him give up this habit once they were married. When one has such an ethereal beauty, one has not the right to indulge in anything that makes one look like a ruminant.
It was getting darker now, for the trees were becoming thicker. The coachman made a lackey inquire whether he was to turn round or go on through the Bois de Boulogne.
“Go on,” ordered Angelique, without waiting for Philippe’s assent. And, having broken the silence at last, she went on brightly:
“Do you know what nonsense people are talking, Philippe? It appears that you are going to marry the Lamoignon girl.”
He inclined his handsome, fair head.
“That nonsense is correct, my dear.”
“But ” Angelique took a breath and plunged on:
“But that isn’t possible! You, the arbiter of elegance, aren’t going to tell me that you find some charm in that poor little grasshopper?”
“I have no opinion whatsoever about her charms.”
“Whatever attracts you in her, then?”
“Her dowry.”
So Mademoiselle de Parajonc had not lied. Angelique stifled a sigh of relief. If it was a question of money, everything could be all right. But she tried to give her face a pained expression:
“Oh! Philippe! I didn’t think you were so materialistic.” “Materialistic?” he repeated, raising his eyebrows.
“I mean, so attached to earthly matters.”
“What else do you expect me to be attached to? My father didn’t intend me for Holy Orders.”
“Without being a churchman, one can consider marriage otherwise than as a money matter!”
“What else is it?”
“Well! . . . a matter of love.”
“Oh! if that’s what’s worrying you, my dear, I can assure you that I am perfectly determined to give this little grasshopper a whole series of children.”
“No!” Angelique shouted with rage.
“She’ll get her money’s worth.”
“No!” said Angelique again, stamping her foot.
Philippe turned an amazed face towards her.
“You don’t want me to give my wife children?”
“That’s not the question, Philippe. I don’t want her to be your wife, that’s all.”
“And why shouldn’t she be?”
Angelique gave a sigh of exasperation.
“Oh! Philippe, you who have frequented Ninon’s salon, I cannot understand how you could have failed to acquire the least gift for con-versation. With your ‘whys’ and your stunned expression you make people feel that they are utterly stupid.”
“Perhaps they are,” he said with a half-smile.
On account of that smile Angelique, who felt like striking him, was filled with an absurd tenderness. He was smiling. . . . Why did he smile so rarely? She had the impression that only she would ever be able to understand him and to make him smile in this way.
“A fool,” said some people. “A brute,” said others. And Ninon de Lenclos: “When one knows him well, one perceives that he is much less nice than he appears, but when one knows him better, one perceives that he is much nicer than he appears. ... He is a nobleman. ... He belongs only to the King and to himself. . . .”
‘And he belongs to me, too,’ thought Angelique fiercely.
She was raging. How on earth could she pull this boy out of his in-difference? The smell of powder? All right, he’d have war, since he wanted it. Nervously she pushed away Chrysanthemum, who was nibbling at the tassels of her cloak, then made an effort to overcome her irritation and said in a light-hearted tone:
“If it’s just a matter of restoring your fortune, Philippe, why don’t you marry me? I have lots of money, and money that doesn’t risk being lost as a result of a poor harvest. I have good, sound business affairs which will go on increasing.”
“Marry you?” he repeated.
His amazement was genuine. He burst out laughing unpleasantly.
“I? Marry a chocolate-maker?” he said with supreme scorn.
Angelique flushed violently. This damned Philippe would always have a gift for crushing her with shame and anger. She said, with blazing eyes:
“One might think that I am suggesting mingling common stock with blood royal! Do not forget that my name is Angelique de Ridoue de Sance de Montcloup. My blood is as pure as yours, Cousin, and it is more ancient, for my family descends from the first Capets, whereas you, on the male side, can only pride yourself on some bastard of Henri II’s.”
He gazed at her unblinkingly for a long while; a sudden interest seemed to appear in his pale eyes.
“You once said something like that to me before. It was at Montcloup, in that crumbling fortress of yours. An ill-kempt little horror in tatters was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs to point out to me that her blood was more ancient than mine. Oh, it was really very funny and ridiculous.”
Angelique saw herself again in the icy corridor of Monteloup, her eyes raised to Philippe. She remembered how cold her hands had been, how hot her head, and how painful her stomach as she watched him coming down the big stone staircase. Her whole young body, labouring with the mystery of puberty, had quivered at the apparition of the beautiful youth. She had fainted. When she had regained consciousness, in the big bed in her room, her mother had explained to her that she was no longer a little girl and that a new phenomenon had taken place in her.
That Philippe should have been involved in those first manifestations of her life as a woman stirred her even after all those years. Yes, it was ridiculous, as he said. But it was not without sweetness.
She looked at him uncertainly and made an effort to smile. Just as on that evening long ago, she felt ready to tremble before him., She mur¬mured in a low, imploring voice:
“Philippe, marry me. You’ll have all the money you want. I am of noble blood. People will soon forget my trade. Anyhow, many gentle¬men nowadays don’t consider it beneath them to engage in business. Monsieur Colbert told me . . .”
She broke off. He was not listening. Perhaps he was thinking of some¬thing else . . . or of nothing. If he had asked her: ‘Why do you want to marry me?’, she would have shouted: ‘Because I love you P For she knew at that moment that she loved him with the same nostalgic, naive love which had shone over her childhood. But he did not speak. So she went on, clumsily, filled with despair:
“Understand me ... I want to find my class again, have a name, a great name ... be presented at Court ... at Versailles. . . .”
That was not the way she should have talked to him. Immediately she regretted her confession, hoped he had not heard it. But he muttered with a narrow smile:
“One can surely consider marriage otherwise than as a money matter!”
Then, in the same tone of voice in which he would have pushed away a hand tendering a box of sweetmeats to him:
“No, my dear, really not. . .
She understood that his decision was irrevocable. She had lost.
After a few moments, Philippe pointed out to her that she had not answered Mademoiselle dc Montpensier’s greeting.
Angelique noticed that the carriage had returned towards the avenues of the Cours-la-Reine, which was now full of animation. She began to respond mechanically to the greetings addressed to her. It seemed to her that the sun had gone out and that life tasted of ashes. She was distraught at the thought that Philippe was sitting next to her and that she found herself thus disarmed. Wasn’t there anything she could do? Her argu¬ments, her passion, slid off him as off a smooth, frozen carapace. You cannot compel a man to marry you when he neither loves nor desires you and when his self-interest can be served as well by some other solution. Fear alone might perhaps constrain him. But what fear could knit the brow of this god Mars?
“There is Madame de Montcspan,” Philippe went on. “She is with her sister, the abbess, and Madame de Thianges. They really are radiant creatures.”
“I thought Madame de Montespan was in the Roussillon. She had begged her husband to take her along so as to escape from her creditors.”
“If I can judge by the state of her carriage, the creditors let themselves be mollified. Did you notice how beautiful die velvet was? But why black? It’s a sinister colour.”
“The Montespans are still in half-mourning for their mother.”
“Less than half. Madame de Montespan danced at Versailles last night. It is the first time we have had a little fun since the death of the Queen Mother. The King invited Madame de Montespan to dance.”
Angelique made an effort to inquire whether this meant that Made¬moiselle de La Valliere’s fall from favour was approaching She found it difficult to keep up this mundane conversation. She did not care a rap whether Monsieur de Montespan was cuckolded and whether her intrepid friend became the King’s mistress.
“His Highness the Prince is waving to you,” said Philippe a little later.
With a movement of her fan, Angelique answered the cane-twirling which the Prince de Conde addressed to her from his carriage-window.
“You are indeed the only woman to whom Monseigneur still shows some gallantry,” declared the Marquis with a little sneer, whether mock¬ing or admiring it was hard to say. “Ever since the death of his sweet friend, Mademoiselle du Vigean, he swore he would never again ask women for anything but carnal pleasures. He himself made me this confidence. For my part, I wonder what on earth he could have asked of them before.”
Then, with a polite yawn:
“There’s only one thing he still desires: to be given a command. Ever since he learned that there are thoughts of a campaign in the air, he hasn’t missed the King’s levee a single day, and he settles his debts with gold pistoles.”
“What heroism!” Angelique sneered, finally exasperated by Philippe’s weary, precious tone. “Just how far will this perfect courtier crawl in his endeavour to return to favour? . . . When one thinks there was a time when he tried to poison the King and his brother!”
“What are you saying, Madame?” Philippe protested indignantly. “He himself does not deny that he was in rebellion against Monsieur de Mazarin. His hatred carried him further than he intended. But the idea of making an attempt on the King’s life could never have even occurred to him. Isn’t that just like women’s irresponsible talk!”
“Oh, don’t feign innocence, Philippe. You know as well as I do that it is true, since the plot was hatched in your own castle.”
There was a pause, and Angelique realised that she had hit her target. “You are mad!” said Philippe in a hushed voice.
Angelique turned towards him. Had she found so soon the way to his fear, his only fear? . . .
She saw him turn pale, his eyes watching her with an expression that was at last attentive. She said in a low voice:
“I was there. I heard them. I saw them. The Prince de Cond£, the monk Exili, the Duchesse de Beaufort, your father, and several others who are still alive and who at present busily bow and scrape at Versailles. I heard them sell themselves to Monsieur Fouquet.”
“That’s a lie!”
Half dosing her eyes, she recited:
“I, Louis II, Prince de Conde, give my word and assurance to Mon¬seigneur Fouquet never to pledge my loyalty to any other person but to him, to place at his disposal my strongholds, fortifications and other such whenever . . .”
“Be silent!” he shouted, horrified.
“Given in Plcssis-ВеШёге, the 20th of September 1649.”
Jubilandy, she saw him grow ever paler:
“Little fool,” he said, shrugging his shoulders with contempt. “Why do you dig up these old stories? Bygones are bygones. The King himself would decline to give them credence.”
“The King has never had the documents in his hands. He never really knew the extent of the treachery of the great lords.”
She broke off to greet the carriage of Madame d’Albret, then continued very gendy:
“Five years haven’t passed, Philippe, since Monsieur Fouquet was sentenced. ...”
“Well then? What arc you driving at?”
“At this: that the King won’t, for a long time yet, be able to regard with affection the names of such persons as were linked with Monsieur Fou-
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quet.
“He won’t know them. The documents were destroyed.”
“Not all of them.”
The young man drew closer to her on the velvet seat. She had dreamed of such a move for a kiss of love, but this was obviously not the time for gallantry. He gripped her wrist and crushed it in his slim hand, whose knuckles went white. Angclique bit her lip with pain, but her pleasure was stronger. She infinitely preferred to see him thus, violent and rough, than aloof, slippery, impervious to attack in the shell of his disdain.
Under his light make-up, the face of the Marquis du Plessis was livid. He tightened his hold on her wrist.
“The poison-casket . . .’’he hissed. “So it was you who took it!” “Yes, it was me.”
“Litde slut! I was always sure you knew something. My father didn’t believe it. The disappearance of that casket tormented him to his death¬bed. And it was you! And you still have that casket?”
“I still have it.”
He began to swear between his teeth. Angelique thought it was won¬derful to see those lovely fresh lips let forth such a string of oaths.
“Let me go,” she said, “you are hurting me.”
He slowly drew away, but with a flash in his eyes.
“I know,” said Angelique, “that you would like to hurt me even more. Hurt me until I close my mouth for ever. But you would gain nothing by it, Philippe. On the very day of my death my testament is to be handed to the King, who will find in it all the necessary revelations and an indication of the hiding-place where the documents can be found.”
With a wry grimace, she removed from her wrist the gold chain whose links Philippe’s fingers had driven into her flesh.
“You are a brute, Philippe,” she said lightly.
Then she pretended to look out of the carriage-window. She was quite calm.
Outside, the setting sun no longer trailed its golden hues across the trees. The carriage had turned back towards the Bois dc Boulogne. It was still light, but night would soon be falling.
Angelique felt frozen with dampness. With a shiver, she turned again towards Philippe. He was as white and motionless as a statue, but she noticed that his fair moustache was wet with perspiration.
“I love the Prince,” he said, “and my father was an honest man. You can’t do a thing like that. . . . How much money do you want in exchange for those documents? I’ll borrow if necessary.”
“I don’t want money.”
“What do you want, then?”
“I told you a moment ago, Philippe. I want you to marry me.” “Never!” he said, recoiling.
Did she disgust him to that point? And yet there had been more than just worldly small-talk between them. Had he not sought her company? Ninon herself had remarked upon it.
They remained silent. Only when the carriage had drawn up before the Hotel de Bcautreillis did Angelique realise that she was back in Paris. It was quite dark now. The young woman could no longer sec Pliilippc’s face. It was better that way.
She was bold enough to question him in a caustic tone of voice:
“Well, Marquis? How far have you got in your meditations?”
He stirred and seemed to wake from a bad dream.
“It’s agreed, Madame, I shall marry you! Have the goodness to present yourself tomorrow night at my house in the rue Saint-Antoine. You will discuss the terms of the contract with my steward/*
Angclique did not hold out her hand. She knew he would refuse it.
She declined the light repast which the chamber-valet presented to her and, contrary to her habits, did not go upstairs to the nursery, but made straightway for the familiar refuge of her Chinese study.
“Leave me,” she said to Javotte, who appeared, to help her undress.
When she was alone, she blew out the candles, for she was afraid of seeing her face reflected in the mirror. She remained motionless for a long time, standing in the dark window-recess. Through the darkness the scent of fresh flowers was wafted to her from the lovely garden.
Was the black ghost of the Great Lame Man lying in wait for her?
She refused to turn round, to look into herself. ‘You left me alone! So what could I do?* she cried to the ghost of her love. She told herself that she would soon be the Marquise du Plessis-Belliere, but there was no joy in her triumph. She only felt broken, shattered.
‘What you have done is ignoble, abominable! . . /
Tears streamed down her cheeks, and with her brow leaning against the window-pane on which a sacrilegious hand had erased the coat-of-arms of the Comte de Peyrac, she wept with litde gasps, swearing to herself that these tears of weakness would be the last she’d ever shed.