“I was about to send out a search party,” the marquis said, his French accented only slightly by his native Italian. “The brigands grow bolder every day.”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Boehmer said, clasping his extended hand, “but the roads are icy and we threw a wheel.”
“I’ll have my men make sure of the repairs.”
Bassenge thanked him, and while their bags were taken to their rooms, the marquis ushered his guests through the salle d’armes, where the walls were lined with medieval weaponry, and into the dining hall, its coffered ceiling gleaming gold in the light of a dozen candelabra. Here, they were served a lavish dinner of roasted boar and fresh pike, accompanied by several bottles of the local Sancerre. It was the best wine Boehmer had ever tasted, and he had tasted many.
The marquis himself was a pleasant enough host, but there remained about him an impenetrable air of mystery. His fortune appeared to be great, but no one at court had ever been able to trace his family or guess where the money had come from. Although he had been received at court by the previous king, Louis XV, he had quarreled with the king’s notorious mistress, Madame du Barry—it had had something to do with a portrait—and he’d soon found himself a close ally of the present queen, whose scorn for du Barry was no secret.
Marie Antoinette had come to rely upon this bold Italian’s taste in many things, especially questions regarding the fine arts, architecture, furnishings, and, above all, jewelry. It was in deference to his exquisite eye that the jewelers had made their pilgrimage to the Chateau Perdu. If they could procure a recommendation of the piece they had brought—a recommendation written in the marquis’s own hand—it would go far toward making up the queen’s mind.
Over dinner, the conversation quite naturally turned to the royal jewels—many of which Boehmer had created—and the marquis casually asked, while another bottle of Sancerre was uncorked, if any new trinkets had recently come to light. The royal coffers were deep, and Sant’Angelo evinced a particular interest in antique silver, perhaps with the old-fashioned niello finish. Boehmer was flattered to be asked, but, really, who was more in the queen’s confidence than the marquis?
“As you know, the queen favors more … glittering fare,” he said, nicely paving the way for what was to come.
It was only after the brandy had been served, along with platters of candied fruits and a redolent Feuille de Dreux—a soft, flat cheese topped with a chestnut leaf—that the more abstemious Bassenge caught his partner’s eye and laid a hand on the walnut box that had never left his side. The marquis did not miss the signal, either.
“The light will be better in the salon upstairs,” he said. “Come.”
The marquis led the way up the grand escalier, its two white wings ascending from the main hall, then down a long corridor lined with Gobelin tapestries (Boehmer’s eye never failed him) that rippled in the draft from the mullioned windows; a violent wind was blowing outside, rattling the iron frames and whistling through the cracks. At the end of the hall a warm light beckoned, and Boehmer, followed by Bassenge, entered a salon to rival the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles.
The walls were made of molded glass and gilded bronze, each of the mirrors long enough to reflect a man in his entirety, and alternated with bookshelves lined with ornately tooled volumes. The cost of such a room—a pentagon, oddly enough, in shape—must have been extraordinary. An enormous chandelier, its hanging crystals sparkling from the light of no less than a hundred white wax candles, hung overhead. The floor was covered with intricately woven Aubusson carpets, and on an oval table, in a corner of the room, a sturdy serving man was just setting down a silver pot and china cups.
“I thought you might like some hot chocolate,” the marquis said. “I’ve grown very fond of it myself.”
Boehmer, too, liked it, though Bassenge, he knew, was never much interested in anything to eat or drink. Already he had drifted over to the books, and with his head tilted to one side was scanning the titles.
Boehmer accepted a cup of the chocolate, thick and aromatic, and took it to the French doors that looked out into the night. He had to put his face close to the glass and shield his face with one hand, but then he could see past the reflection.
They were at the top of one of the towers, and just outside there was a slate terrace; beyond that, he could make out the tops of some very tall and ancient oaks, bending in the wind. Past the trees was a sheer cliff, falling away to the Loire, the longest river in France. Its surface glistened dully in the moonlight, like an enormous black serpent lying across the land. Boehmer imagined that the view might be quite spectacular by day, though right then it was both vertiginous and oddly disquieting.