The Adventurer (6 page)

They were so wide, Isabella could quite rest her arms upon them when she walked.

Minette took the overskirt of the gown’s robe and looped it up in back in a manner that she called
à la polonaise,
setting each gather with a silk rosette. But the finishing touch was the gown’s stomacher. Made of emerald green silk, it was chased and figured in silver and gold threads with sequins and tiny seed pearls in a design similar to that on the skirt. The effect was so stunning Isabella had to stifle a gasp when she turned to look at herself in the pier glass.

She almost didn’t recognize herself.

“Oh, Minette. It is lovely. Truly, truly lovely.”

Like any artisan, the maid smiled proudly. “Now let us see about your coiffure, mademoiselle.”

At the appointed hour, a palace footman came to knock upon the door, conveying Isabella and Idonia by candlelight through the palace hallways, into the king’s own apartments, and on up a narrow flight of stairs to the private apartments of the Marquise de Pompadour.

“Mademoiselle Drayton. Madame Fenwycke. So happy you could come.”

Louis XV’s mistress greeted them both warmly, drawing them into a generous room peopled with what must have been at least a dozen others.

As soon as they arrived, the conversations that had been buzzing fell silent and every powdered and rouged face turned to look at them.

The marquise’s apartments were resplendent both in size and decor. Plasterwork ceilings carved in elaborate relief stretched above pristine parquet floors. There was a carved marble fireplace and tall arched windows that looked out onto the gardens and surrounding countryside. Carved fruitwood furnishings and portraits framed in gilt only added to the air of elegance and grace.

And the players on this grand stage were no less impressive.

There were powdered coiffures set with feathers and pearls, velvet coats trimmed in gold braiding, and gowns cut provocatively low over creamy bosoms bedecked with glittering jewels. Isabella crossed the room and immediately recognized the king, Louis, sitting in a chair near the fire. He was engaged in conversation with a gentleman whose face she couldn’t quite see. His clothing, however, was very rich, deep-colored velvets and shimmering silks.

“My ladies, come, allow me to introduce you to the others.”

The marquise was herself dressed to the height of fashion in a gown of rose-colored satin with a strand of pale pearls the size of Caroline’s play marbles. She ushered Isabella and Idonia about the room, introducing them to each of the other guests, an intriguing mix of personalities, noblemen and women, foreign dignitaries, and artists, including the author Voltaire. Lord Belcourt, her escort for their journey the next day, was also present.

It took nearly an hour to make the introductions and by the time they had finished, a footman had appeared to announce that it was time to go in to supper.

At once, the others took to their feet, crowding after their hostess as she led them into another chamber, where a table had been set with porcelain and fine sparkling crystal. Candles burned from chandeliers and tall silver candle stands. A team of footmen stood against the far wall, waiting to serve. The table filled quickly as chairs were spoken for. Being a stranger to the scene, Isabella had thought to simply find herself any seat that might be left. She was more than a little surprised when she was directed instead to the seat next to the marquise and across from the king.

“Bonsoir, mademoiselle.”

The gentleman with whom the king had been speaking earlier appeared at her other side.

As he bowed to her, Isabella saw he was a man of advancing years, in his sixties, she guessed, of a medium height, a slender, graceful figure, and a captivating smile. His eyes, however, were his most stunning feature. They were dark and compelling as he took her hand and pressed a kiss to it.

“Bonsoir, monsieur ... ?”

“Oh, do forgive me,” Madame de Pompadour quickly broke in. “We missed you earlier, monsieur, when you were chatting with the king. Mademoiselle Drayton, allow me to introduce to you our good friend le Comte de St. Germain. Monsieur le comte, this is Lady Isabella Drayton of Northumbria in England. She is the daughter of the king’s good friend, the Duke of Sudeleigh.”

“Ah, Lady Isabella Drayton,” he repeated, and she noticed then his voice carried a slight accent. It was one she couldn’t readily identify. “I do not recall having seen you about the palace before tonight. Have you been at Versailles very long?”

“Lady Isabella is only visiting us for the evening, Comte,” answered the marquise for her. “She leaves for Scotland on the morrow.”

“Scotland?” St. Germain bowed his head.
“Enchantez, mademoiselle.
Your hasty departure, however, is certainly France’s loss.”

Something about the way he looked at her made Isabella nervous, though not in a frightening way. It seemed almost as if just by looking at her, touching her hand, the comte could uncover her most cherished secrets.

St. Germain lowered into his chair and the marquise signaled the footmen to begin serving.

Isabella noticed that while everybody else received generous portions of roast fowl, buttered
haricots,
and
cuissot de chevreuil,
the comte’s supper plate was left conspicuously empty. He was given only a small pot of tea that when he poured looked a peculiar greenish yellow in color and gave of an unfamiliar aroma, like exotic spices.

“You are not eating supper, monsieur le comte?”

“Non,
I do not partake of wine or meat, mademoiselle. I find it muddles my thoughts. I will have my supper later in my own apartments. For now, I take tea made from a mixture of herbs that I discovered while traveling in the east. Would you care to try it?”

He poured a splash of the stuff into her cup even before she could offer a response.

Knowing it would be rude of her to refuse, Isabella took up her cup. The scent of the tea struck her, intense and earthy. She took a tentative sip.

“It is tasty,” she said. “Not bitter, but—” she hesitated, “—familiar somehow. I can’t quite think of what it reminds me of.”

Madame de Pompadour agreed. “I said the very same thing, mademoiselle. It is wondrously soothing when I am suffering from an upset stomach. I have begged Monsieur to tell me what it is, but despite my pleas, he has refused to reveal it.” She slanted the comte a coy glance. “Just as he has refused to reveal the place and date of his birth. He is a most elusive man, our comte. Some say he is even
ageless.”

The marquise lowered her voice then, ducking her head closer to Isabella. “You see, I have it from the Countess de Gergy, who was ambassadress at Vienna some fifty years ago, that when she first met le Comte de St. Germain, even then he appeared exactly the same as he does now.”

St. Germain gave a small chuckle. “Ah, madame, the good countess is too kind.”

The marquise lifted her head. “So you admit you know the countess?”

“It is true, I knew Madame de Gergy many years ago.”

“Ah,
oui,
but how many years ago, sir?”

St. Germain lifted a brow. “Many,
many
years ago.”

“If this is true then you must be more than a hundred years old, monsieur!”

Isabella noticed that the conversation had begun to draw the attention of some of the others sitting at the table.

“That is not impossible, my dear marquise,” St. Germain said blandly, “although I confess, it is also possible that Madame de Gergy, for whom I have the greatest respect, is simply mistaken.”

“Oh,
la!
Monsieur,” Madame de Pompadour chided, “you always respond in riddles. Perhaps you will answer this. The countess also tells me that you gave her a strange elixir that enabled her to preserve her appearance for some five-and-twenty years without there appearing even the smallest change, as if you had distilled it from the very waters of the Fountain of Youth.”

St. Germain merely smiled, glancing at Isabella. He did not, however, respond.

“One cannot argue that the countess is a woman of uncommon beauty at her age,” the marquise persisted.

Still the comte offered nothing.

“If this is true, why do you not give this same elixir to the king? So that our beloved sire may rule France forever?”

The marquise’s comment had succeeded in drawing the king’s attention, as well as that of everyone else sitting at the table. The room was silent, forks hovered before open mouths as everyone awaited St. Germain’s reply.

When it came, however, he spoke it in Russian, leaving everyone to peer at him quizzically.

Everyone, that is, except Isabella.

She laughed out loud, the only one at the table to do so, drawing stares from the others. She felt her face flush in embarrassment.

“Ah, the mademoiselle from England speaks Russian?” asked the comte.

“A little,” she responded. “My father encouraged his children to study various languages. I was fascinated by the story of Csarina Elizaveta Petrovna, and so chose the Russian tongue.”

“Ah, then you must tell us, Mademoiselle Drayton,” said the king. “What did le Comte de St. Germain just say in response to the marquise’s questioning why he does not offer his strange youth-preserving elixir to his sire?”

Isabella glanced at the comte.

St. Germain inclined his head, smiling. “By all means, mademoiselle. Do tell His Majesty what I said.”

She looked across the table at Louis, who sat waiting for her answer. Isabella could feel the eyes of the entire room watching her. Finally, she said, “Monsieur le comte said that the royal physicians would have him tortured and broken on the wheel were he to think of drugging Your Majesty.”

The king erupted with laughter, with the others immediately following suit, both at the comte’s jest and at Isabella’s delivery of it. Isabella felt herself relax. Wine was poured. The comte took up his empty wineglass, holding it aloft to her in a silent congratulatory toast.

The rest of the supper passed pleasantly enough, and afterward some of the guests parted, slipping away through shadowed corridors, while others stayed on for coffee and conversation. Still others withdrew to an antechamber for cards.

Never having been one inclined to the stakes of gambling, Isabella strolled to the opposite side of the room to more closely admire a painting that graced the far wall. It was an unusual piece, a still life of a necklace draped over a woman’s slender fingers set with diamonds, rubies, and pearls. A seemingly simple subject, it had been painted in such a way as to show each stone’s own sparkle and brilliance. Isabella found herself wondering that she might just reach out and lift the piece right off the canvas.

“You like the painting, mademoiselle?”

Isabella turned to see that le Comte de St. Germain had joined her, moving so quietly, she hadn’t noticed him until he was standing right beside her.

“Indeed, monsieur. I have never seen such a talent for effecting the quality of light onto a canvas. Look at the ruby. See how it reflects every shade of red. I should like to know how the artist portrayed the nuance of the light so flawlessly.”

The king, holding a cup of
café,
had come to join them.

“Then you must ask him, Mademoiselle Drayton.”

“Ask him, Your Majesty?”

“Oui,
for the artist stands here beside you, none other than monsieur le comte himself.”

Isabella looked at St. Germain. “Indeed, monsieur?”

He inclined his head modestly.

“However did you make the jewels sparkle so brilliantly? They look so very real, as if through some magic you melted them down just so that you could brush them upon the canvas.”

The comte looked at her with a smile on his lips and a glimmer in his dark eyes. “I am glad to know you admire the painting, mademoiselle. I should be delighted to paint one for you if it would persuade you to forgo your return to England but a while longer, so that we might continue to enjoy your company.”

Isabella thought of the letter her mother had sent to her and her eminent return to England. “I’m afraid that is impossible, sir. I am expected by my family. But I thank you for the offer of it.”

“Isabella, dear,” Aunt Idonia broke in then. “We really should retire. We’ve a long journey on the morrow and you must get your rest. Lord Belcourt tells me we’ll need to depart rather early if we’re to make Calais on time.”

“Of course, Aunt.” Isabella smiled in apology to the others. She curtsied to the king.
“Bonsoir,
Your Majesty.” She turned to St. Germain and offered her hand.

“Monsieur le comte. It was an honor and a privilege to meet you both.”

The comte bowed to her.
“Enchantez,
Mademoiselle Drayton. I can only hope our meeting this evening will not be our last.”

Isabella would learn no less than an hour later just what the comte had meant by his last words.

Isabella was curled against an armchair, enjoying the warmth of the hearth fire and putting the finishing touches to a sketch by candlelight when a soft scratching sounded at the door.

She glanced at the clock. The hour was late, far too late for visiting. Idonia had long since retired, but Isabella had found herself restless after the events of the day and the prospect of the morrow’s journey, so she’d taken out her sketching book in hopes of settling her thoughts.

Setting her chalks and pencils aside, Isabella crossed the room on slippered feet and opened the door onto the shadowed face of one of the palace footmen.

He looked as if he’d been awakened. His wig was askew and his shirt was hanging half in and half out of his breeches. In his hands he bore a small silver tray, atop which lay a folded note.

“Pour vous, mademoiselle.”

Isabella took the note and quietly thanked the footman. He bowed his head as she turned from the door to read it.

Mademoiselle,

There is a matter about which I find I must speak to you afore your departure on the morrow. My request might seem peculiar, since we have only just this night met, but I beg your indulgence in this. Please meet me in the Galerie de Glaces precisely at midnight. I give you my word as a gentleman I intend nothing dishonorable.