“MADEMOISELLE, ALLOW ME THE HONOR of being the first to compliment your beauty—”
“I would prefer it if you were as keen to get out of my way as to hurl flattery at me, Monsieur le comte,” said Eliza, brushing past d’Avaux. “I am on my way to speak with étienne de Lavardac in the chapel.”
“I shall escort you,” d’Avaux announced.
Such had been the vehemence of Eliza’s passage that her skirts had bullwhipped around d’Avaux’s ankles and his sword, and nearly upended him, but he had more aplomb than any ten other French diplomats, and so presently appeared on her arm, looking as perfectly composed as an embalmed corpse.
They were hurrying down a gallery that had been obstructed by servants balancing food-trays and carrying party-decorations; but when these saw the onrushing Count and Countess, they took shelter in the lees of pilasters or ducked into niches.
“I would be remiss if I failed to express to you, mademoiselle, my concern over the choices you have lately been making as to social contacts.”
“What!? Who!? The de Lavardac family? Pontchartrain? Monsieur Rossignol?”
“It is precisely because you are so frequently seen in the company of these fine persons, that you must reconsider your decision to associate with the likes of Madame la duchesse d’Oyonnax.”
Now Eliza’s free hand strayed to her waistband, for she had a sudden terror that the green phial would fall out and shatter on the floor and fill the gallery with a smell as foul as her intentions. It was such an obvious gesture that d’Avaux would have seen it, had he been facing her; but he was looking in another direction.
“Like it or not, monsieur, she is a fixture of Court, and I cannot pretend she doesn’t exist.”
“Yes, but to have private meetings with such a woman, as you have done three times in the last two months—”
“Who has been counting, monsieur?”
“Everyone, mademoiselle. That is my point. Even though you may be pure as snow—”
“Your sarcasm is rude.”
“This is a rude conversation, being a hurried one. As I was saying, you might be as upright as de Maintenon herself. But if and when Monsieur le duc d’Arcachon dies—”
“How can you speak of this, on his birthday!?”
“One year closer to death, mademoiselle. And even if the manner of his death is as innocent as falling from a horse, or going down on a sinking ship, people will say you had something to do with it, if you continue to tryst in dark places with Oyonnax.”
“Anyone can bandy accusations. Few have the dignity to make them count.”
“Is that what Oyonnax told you?”
This left Eliza speechless for a turn; so d’Avaux continued: “I was born a count, you were made a countess; I am one of those few who can accuse you.”
“You really are hideous.”
“I accused you before, after you spied for the Prince of Orange; but you escaped trouble, because you were doing it for Madame, and because you paid. Now you are alone, and you have no money. I do not know who it is precisely that you mean to poison: perhaps the Duke, perhaps étienne, perhaps one and then the other. I am strongly tempted to wait and to watch as you do these crimes, and then destroy you—for to see you chained to a stone wall in the Bastille would be most satisfying to me. But I cannot allow a Duke and Peer of the Realm to suffer murder, merely to slake my own base cravings. And so I warn you, mademoiselle, not to—”
“Kill me,” said a voice from ahead of them.
D’Avaux and Eliza, still clamped together side by side, arm in arm, had reached the ancient double doors at the back of the chapel, and gone through. It looked entirely different now. Eliza half supposed they had come into the wrong room. The sun had gone down, so no light came through the windows; but hundreds of candles were now burning on scores of silver candelabras. Their light gleamed on the polished backs of many gilded chairs, which in lieu of pews had been arranged on the stone floor—no, on a Persian carpet laid over the floor. The altar was covered in a white silk cloth encrusted with gold brocade, though this was difficult to see, as the front half of the chapel had been turned into a fragrant jungle of white flowers. Eliza’s first thought, oddly, was, Where the hell did those come from at this time of the year? but the answer must have been some nobleman’s stifling Orangerie.
étienne de Lavardac d’Arcachon, attired in full-dress cavalry colonel’s uniform, was sprawled on the carpet at the base of the altar, posed like an artist’s model. Resting on the carpet before him, at the head of the aisle, were two shiny objects: a serpentine dagger, and a golden ring.