Zachi pranced when they passed the spot where the tiger had appeared, but nothing, not even shadows, marked the verge of the path.
Zachi did see something, Marie-Josèphe thought. I wonder what I saw, that wasn’t a tiger?
“Zachi thinks you might let her race again.”
“Not now,” Marie-Josèphe said. “You must think—I know better than to run a horse in the dark—”
“The desert breed sees in the dark like cats,” Count Lucien said. “You asked no more than Zachi was willing to give you.”
“Did you live with the Bedouins? In the desert?”
“I spent several years in the Levant. In Arabia, in Egypt, in Morocco.”
“On the King’s secret business?”
“Should I tell you, if it were secret business?” He chuckled. “I was only a youth, and at the time His Majesty wasn’t inclined to give me any commissions, secret or otherwise.”
“Morocco and Egypt and Arabia,” Marie-Josèphe said, tasting the words. “What an adventure—I envy you!”
The chateau loomed ahead, rising on the crest of its low hill like a crown. The attic and ground floor windows glowed with candlelight; the windows of the first floor, the royal floor, glittered with the reflected light of mirrors and crystal chandeliers. Marie-Josèphe and Count Lucien rode into the passageway between the chateau proper and its northern wing.
Marie-Josèphe wrestled with her velvet skirt and the unfamiliar saddle. A word from Count Lucien brought a footman. She dismounted, made awkward by apprehension. She was afraid to look at the seat of the saddle.
In the years since her parents had died, she had felt despair and grief and hopelessness, fury and outrage, even moments of peace and happiness, but never helpless fear.
“Thank you for your courtesy, sir,” she said to Count Lucien. “I’m more grateful than you can know.”
“Fulfill your duties to His Majesty,” Count Lucien said, “so he knows your gratitude.”
She handed him Zachi’s reins. The bay Arabian lipped gently at her sleeve. Marie-Josèphe stroked the mare’s soft muzzle.
“Does Zachi bow?” Marie-Josèphe asked.
“Yes, Mlle de la Croix,” Count Lucien said. “All my horses bow.”
Marie-Josèphe crept into her room, moving quietly so as not to wake Odelette. Hercules blinked at her, his eyes reflecting green in the candlelight.
She struggled out of her hunting habit. Her chemise was a little stained, but the blood had not soaked into her underskirt or spoiled her petticoat. Marie-Josèphe sighed with relief and surprise, for her flow usually began heavily. She tied a rolled towel between her legs. She rinsed out her chemise and the rags she had put to soak, and hung them to dry.
The bed offered a warm place beside Odelette. She put aside the temptation, wrapped Lorraine’s cloak around her shoulders, and carried candle and drawing box to Yves’ dressing-room.
The light of her candle flickered across a boxy shape covered in drapery. Marie-Josèphe pulled the brocade aside, uncovering an extraordinary harpsichord. The polished wood shone; the delicate frieze of inlay danced along its side. She opened the keyboard. Each ebony key reflected an orange flame. The harpsichord smelled of exotic wood, beeswax, rare oil.
She sat on the matching bench and brushed her fingertips across the keys. They caressed her like silk, like Lorraine’s manicured hands.
Marie-Josèphe played a chord.
She winced at the discord. She looked for the tuning key, but it was nowhere to be found.
Tears of disappointment and frustration sprang to her eyes. She tried to reassure herself. The instrument was not so very out of tune. She could compose on it, she could correct the tones in her mind. But she would compose without the pleasure of a true instrument.
Jumping up, she ran back down the stairs to the main floor, the royal floor of the chateau.
“Where’s Count Lucien?” she asked the first servant she saw. “Have you seen Count Lucien?”
“He went to his carriage, mamselle. Through the Marble Courtyard.”
She ran down to the Marble Courtyard, crossing it on tiptoe—she was directly beneath His Majesty’s bedchamber; she must not do anything to disturb him—toward Count Lucien’s carriage. Its lanterns gleamed on the polished black and white marble. The eight bay horses snorted and champed their bits. A footman swung the carriage door closed and leapt up behind.
“Hup!” the driver said. The carriage rolled forward, the horses’ iron shoes ringing on the cobblestones.
“Wait!” Marie-Josèphe called softly. “Please wait!”
Count Lucien leaned from the window. “Guillaume, stop,” he said. The carriage halted. The footman jumped down again and opened the carriage door. Count Lucien stood to speak with Marie-Josèphe.
“Count Lucien—I’m so sorry, I don’t mean any ingratitude, thank you for the harpsichord, it’s beautiful, but—it’s out of tune, and I cannot find the key.”
“M. Coupillet has been instructed to tune it for you in the morning.”
“M. Coupillet!” she exclaimed, dismayed.
“He will do exactly as you instruct him,” Count Lucien said, as if giving her a gift.
“I’m grateful, sir, but… I’d prefer a harpsichord key to M. Coupillet.”
He smiled. “It shall be as you wish. Will it wait till morning?”
“Yes, sir—otherwise I’ll wake my brother with the twanging!”
He chuckled.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome, mademoiselle.”
Monsieur’s carriage, bright with gilt and lanterns, rattled across the cobbles, passed through the gateway to the Place d’Armes, and disappeared down the Avenue de Paris.
“Are you going to Paris with Monsieur?” She envied the men their freedom; she wished to see Paris with a longing both unsophisticated and obvious. She wished she had kept her silence; her curiosity was ill-bred and impertinent.
“I am going home,” Count Lucien said.
“I thought you lived here. Near His Majesty. In the chateau.”
“In the courtiers’ rat warren?” Count Lucien said. “No. I seldom stay in my apartment here. I require all the comfort I can find, Mlle de la Croix. Comfort is not to be found in the chateau of Versailles.”
“Lucien, come inside, you’re abusing yourself with the night air.” The Marquise de la Fère leaned forward and put her hand on Count Lucien’s shoulder, a gesture of concern and affection. The carriage-lantern cast harsh shadows over her pox-scarred complexion. She drew a silk scarf across her damaged beauty.
Count Lucien turned to her. Marie-Josèphe could not make out what he said, but his voice was flirtatious, and equally affectionate. The marquise laughed softly, let the scarf fall, and stroked Count Lucien’s cheek.
“Good evening, Mlle de la Croix,” the marquise said.
“Good evening, Mme de la Fère.” Marie-Josèphe stammered a little with shock and surprise.
“Good night, Mlle de la Croix.” Count Lucien bowed and withdrew. The carriage rumbled away.
Marie-Josèphe returned to her tiny apartment. Now she understood what Madame, what the chevalier, had meant when they referred to Mme de la Fère as “Mme Present” and to Mlle de Valentinois as “Mlle Past,” and she supposed they must have good reason to refer to the exquisite Mlle d’Armagnac as “Mlle Future,” though she appeared to Marie-Josèphe already to be fully occupied with Lotte’s brother.
I suppose I should not be surprised to see Count Lucien with a lover, she thought. Why should he be any better than Chartres? He is an atheist, after all.
Once more she had misunderstood him, misunderstood what everyone had told her about him. Madame had told her, without quite saying so, that Count Lucien was a rake. The Chevalier de Lorraine had warned her as well. She had no right to be disappointed in Count Lucien.