Rebel Rose, page 4
She couldn’t help but move to Bastien’s imposing desk and pull out the leather chair to sit upon it. She swung her legs up onto the mahogany surface like she had watched him do earlier that day and rested her hands on the back of her head. From here, the duc must have felt very powerful indeed. There was a portrait across the room she hadn’t noticed earlier. It was of Bastien’s father, the former duc de Vincennes, and two young boys Belle guessed were Bastien and Lio, painted sometime before Lio left Paris for good, judging by their ages.
The painting was a fine work and would have cost a fair bit to commission. She could see that Bastien took after his father, though the painted version of the elder duc lacked his son’s knowing smirk. Young Lio appeared to be as haughty as his cousin. Belle didn’t recognize the look of cold superiority on his face. This young version of Lio was about to learn he had lost his mother. Her heart ached for him, and she found she didn’t want to look at it any longer.
When she pushed her knees back under the desk, she knocked them on the underside of it, releasing a mechanism and revealing a hidden drawer. She paused before her curiosity got the better of her, and she pulled the drawer out to find a hidden trove of documents. On top were papers published by Rousseau, Descartes, Locke, Montesquieu, and Voltaire, the philosophers Belle had spent years studying. She shuffled through the papers and noted that a lot of them were revolutionary pamphlets like the one that had been pressed into her hands at the gardens of the Palais-Royal. She was no stranger to pamphlets, but these were authored by people she had never heard of. Information was often slow to trickle to Aveyon, if at all. She had to stop herself from tucking a few into her pockets. She found bound folios labeled Cahiers de Doléances, and inside were the demands of the Third Estate, assembled for the États généraux that King Louis had called earlier that year, the one that France’s peasants had called unfair, setting off the establishment of the National Assembly. Was Bastien gathering information for the king? Or was he sympathetic to the cause?
She was so absorbed in reading from the trove of pamphlets that she didn’t hear Lio enter the room.
“Belle.” He spoke from right over her shoulder, making her jump. She slammed the hidden drawer shut and turned. Her husband was ashen, and not just because of the smear of white powder on his face, now faded so that patches of skin showed through. Defeat lay heavy on his bones, and Belle’s mind flew to the worst possibilities.
“What is it? What happened?”
He sank into the chair she had vacated and spoke like he hadn’t heard her at all. “I remember Versailles being lavish, I remember being stunned by it, but, Belle, mon Dieu, it was overwhelming.”
She could only imagine the reception a long-lost prince étranger would have garnered. Lio would have bristled at the gawks and whispers from the hawkish courtiers, to say nothing of the king himself. “Were you the talk of the king’s court?”
He shook his head. “I barely saw any courtiers. We were made to wait for Louis in some forgotten set of chambers. I thought Bastien was going to murder the valet who left us there.”
“I can imagine.” Bastien was not a man accustomed to being forgotten.
“And then Louis was nothing like the Louis I remember. He was soft, weak, paranoid. He didn’t care to know where I had been for ten years. All he did was make demands.”
“Demands?”
He tore the wig from his head and threw it on the desk. “France is facing a financial crisis.”
She waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn’t, she placed a hand on his shoulder. “We know; Bastien told us.”
“I didn’t think it was quite so dire. Bastien has a way of making everything sound inconsequential. It’s a gift, really.” He sighed and ran his hands through his matted hair. “It would seem that Louis has spent his reign gifting tax exemptions to disgruntled nobles, while calling on France’s peasants to fund America’s war for independence. And then he banned promotion to officer from the lower ranks of the Royal Army, effectively preventing any commoner from advancing via loyal service and brave deeds. And he and Marie Antoinette spend and spend and spend without consequence. I don’t understand how he didn’t see what the outcome would be. It’s worse than we thought, Belle, and the king wants my help.”
She leaned against the desk and folded her arms over her chest. “With what?”
He pulled at his collar. “My undying loyalty and support in the form of money for his coffers and men to bolster his ranks.”
Belle tried to collect her thoughts. “Lio, we can’t.” It was all she could muster. The idea of sending Aveyonian men to serve in France, a place they didn’t know, ruled by a king who didn’t give a damn about them, was unthinkable. So few of the men who had left their kingdom to fight in America had ever returned, and if France was tipping toward a bloody revolution, it was up to Belle and Lio to protect their people from it, not offer them up as some sort of payment.
“I know, but Louis is desperate for more troops. He’s convinced that the peasants are going to rise up against him.” He said it like the prospect was ridiculous.
“I think they will.” She uncrossed her arms and stood. “I think France is on the verge of civil war.”
He looked up at her incredulously. “What do you mean?”
“I went to the Palais-Royal today, and it’s chock-full of people making speeches criticizing the king and calling for revolution. Look.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the Sieyès pamphlet. “I think your cousin is mistaken. I think the Third Estate is about to become something.”
Lio quickly read over the pamphlet before setting it down on the desk, looking dejected. “I don’t think I can refuse him.”
“You’d send troops here?”
“I don’t want to, but what can I say? The king of France didn’t care to know what one of his allies was doing during ten years of silence. All he cared about was my money and my soldiers. What can I do? Refuse him? On what grounds?”
“It’s not our fight, Lio, Aveyon isn’t like France.”
“I know, but as a principality, we’re subject to its laws and its king. And Bastien was right: Louis had forgotten Aveyon. Our tax rate has been unchanged for over a decade. If I anger him, he’d be well within his rights to increase the rate retroactively and call upon our people to pay the difference. I can’t do that to them.”
They sat there in stunned silence, both of them too tired to come up with a clever way out of their predicament. Belle wanted nothing more than to take a long bath and sleep the day away. Perhaps everything would look different in the morning.
“Well, I’m going to need a large tea and an even larger nap if we’re going to be up all night finding a way out of this,” she said. Lio’s face fell. “What?”
“I forgot to tell you Bastien is hosting a dinner in our honor. He invited all of the courtiers I grew up with.” He spoke as if the words were poison.
“Surely you don’t mean tonight.”
“They’ve already begun to arrive.” He took her hands in his. “Bastien cannot resist the opportunity to be the center of attention. I promise it will all be over soon.”
He looked so exhausted by the events of the day that Belle couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth she was beginning to feel in her heart—that it had only just begun.
Dinner passed in a blur of high-throated laughter and the occasional sneer from Bastien’s numerous aristocratic friends. The immense dining room table all but sagged under the weight of the dishes: tureens of beef madrilène, bisque of shellfish, and cold cucumber soup mingled with heaving platters of beef ragout, scallops smothered in puréed chestnuts, salmon en sel, and ramequins of cheese soufflé. All the dishes perspired in the July evening heat under the glow of a thousand candles, but thanks to the duc’s priorities, the champagne was pleasantly cool.
The only respite she found from the constant inanity of dinner came from her seatmate, Charles Louis, the marquis de Montcalm, whom she quickly discovered was a close friend of Olympe de Gouges, a playwright and activist whom Belle deeply admired.
“Where did you meet the Madame de Gouges?” she asked between bites of ragout.
The marquis dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “I believe our first meeting was at a salon hosted by the Madame de Montesson. Olympe was as vibrant as one could imagine, advocating passionately for human rights and against the slave trade. She held the room in her thrall.”
Belle hung on his every word. “I should very much like to meet her one day.”
The marquis smiled. “I am certain that could be arranged, madame.”
The prospect thrilled her. She hadn’t expected to find someone like Charles Louis at Bastien’s dinner, but she was glad she had.
The dinner was a more refined affair than Belle had ever experienced, and it did nothing to prepare her for the barely restrained indulgence that came after. Courses were presented and removed before she even had a chance to work out which of her six forks matched which type of dish, but it didn’t matter; she didn’t have much of an appetite. Her head ached from the weight of the wig Bastien had insisted she wear, proclaiming the state of her hair to be outside the bounds of acceptability after a day of walking Paris’s streets. It was a towering, rolled thing, dyed a shade or two darker than Belle’s own hair, with ringlets framing her face. Her itchy scalp begged for mercy, and Belle did her best with the handle of her smallest fork when she thought no one was looking.
Once the last of the smelly cheeses had been taken away, Belle realized that the excesses of the meal were for show. Hardly anyone ate more than she did, leaving ample room for after-dinner champagne and the heartiest meal of the night—gossip.
Bastien paraded Belle around like an exotic animal, introducing her as a commoner turned princess, evidently a novelty none of the guests had ever encountered before. Explaining to them that she was not, in fact, a princess proved tedious.
“But you’re married to a prince,” remarked a woman with deeply rouged cheeks.
“Indeed I am,” Belle replied patiently. “But I did not take a title when I married.”
“Why not?” the woman asked, her voice high.
“It’s not something I’ve ever desired,” Belle offered weakly, knowing this noblewoman didn’t care to know the true complexities of Belle’s feelings on the matter.
Lio was across the room, surrounded by friends and acquaintances he hadn’t seen since childhood. Her husband had done away with the white paint and wig Bastien had insisted he wear to Versailles, and yet he was still confined to an outfit of his cousin’s choosing, and unused to the ruffles and lace of Parisian finery. His discomfort reminded her of the time Lumière had wrangled the Beast into something of a courtly ensemble.
Even rough around the edges, Lio still looked princely standing there among them, shooting her apologetic glances when he could, knowing she was probably tallying all the absurdities she’d been made to endure thus far. He owed her. She had half a mind to demand he present her with another library for her troubles.
The liquor flowed freely, and the guests, while absurd in their conduct, were pedigreed beyond compare. Lio had spent the dinner whispering names to her under his breath.
That’s the comte de Chamfort. The last time I saw him he was beating a servant with his walking stick for spilling tea when we were boys.
That’s the Mademoiselle de Vignerot, she’s been betrothed to an Austrian archduke since birth.
Belle would have rather been anywhere else. Bastien’s guests were an unpleasant blend of immensely rich and disturbingly aloof. She knew in any other circumstance they would reject her outright because of her status as a commoner, former or not. But she was interesting, and to a roomful of courtiers who spent most of their time in the protocol-laden court of King Louis, being interesting was a far greater virtue than simply being rich or noble. They peppered her with questions about the most mundane aspects of growing up a peasant, and they were utterly enthralled by her answers.
What was it like to make your own bread?
Did you truly mend your own clothing?
You said your father is an inventor? How quaint!
She felt as though she was on display in a museum, but she couldn’t escape their queries. So she fought back the best way she knew how.
“Surely I’m not the only commoner you’ve ever spoken to?” she asked the Mademoiselle de Vignerot, a girl a few years younger than Belle who wore a gown so encrusted in jewels it seemed impossible to breathe in. She had been engrossed by Belle’s tales of peasantry for nearly a quarter of an hour while she fanned herself.
“Madame, we do our best to avoid them,” she confessed with mock sincerity. “Though if they are anything like you, then perhaps we are missing out.” She said it like she knew it wasn’t true, and all the ladies clustered around her howled with laughter. To them, Belle was an oddity: a peasant who was polite enough to dine with them without catastrophe. She didn’t fit with their preconceived notions of how a peasant should behave, so they treated her like a rarity. It was absurd; Belle herself had grown up with many smart and worldly commoners, and met more than a few ignorant and dim nobles in just one night.
She walked away from the gaggle of them and found a hiding place on the other side of one of the pillars that lined the edge of the room. She took some deep breaths and tried her best to convince herself not to run away from the dinner entirely.
“That bad, is it?”
She turned to find she wasn’t the only person hiding from the guests. A tall woman with warm brown skin and tightly curled black hair leaned against the wall with a flute of champagne held close to her mouth. She was close in age to Belle, perhaps a bit younger, but she possessed a commanding posture and wore a dress so simple in its design it only served to make her stand out all the more.
Belle wasn’t often lost for words. “I’m sorry?”
“Your guests.” She gestured around the curve of the pillar. “Monstrous bores, aren’t they?”
Belle’s heart warmed at the insult, but she didn’t know the woman she was speaking to, and an unkindness lobbed at those she found insufferable could quickly turn into one aimed at her. “I’m sorry—” she started.
“You keep saying that.”
Belle cleared her throat and commanded her cheeks not to flush. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
The girl drained the flute. “I’d hardly warrant an introduction.” She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and extended it outward. “I’m Marguerite, the Mademoiselle de Lambriquet, as it were.”
Belle took her hand and found herself dipping into a curtsy without meaning to. Marguerite laughed and held her up by the shoulders. “Please, as the wife of a prince, even without your title you rank much higher than a daughter of a penniless duc.”
Belle’s mouth eased into a smile. “You might be the first person in Paris who has spoken frankly with me.”
“That I can believe. Look.” She gestured out past the pillar that shielded them. “See that flagorneur by your husband’s cousin?” Belle guessed the man Marguerite was calling a sycophant was the one she had scarcely seen away from Bastien’s side that night, and his only true rival in pomposity. “That is my brother, Aurelian, the marquis de Lambriquet.” He was a slight bit older than Marguerite and ostentatious in all the ways his sister was subdued. “He despises Bastien and his shallow frivolity”—she pitched her voice to an unbearably nasal tone in what Belle imagined was an imitation of her brother—“but he sees the duc de Vincennes as his surest ticket to our father’s title and holdings.”
Belle looked away from the peacockish marquis and over at Marguerite. “I’m sorry, when did he pass?”
“Pass? Oh, no, my father is alive and well. He simply refuses to attend Versailles and so he is an outcast with no appointments or influence, taxed to the hilt because he receives no subsidies he would be entitled to if he took part. It is the source of Aurelian’s greatest shame.” Marguerite’s expression was smug as she pulled another flute of champagne seemingly out of thin air. “My brother is hoping Bastien can help sway the king to strip my ungrateful father of his title and bestow it upon his son.”
“Why would Bastien be able to convince the king of
anything?”
She looked at Belle as though the answer were obvious. “Bastien and Louis are thick as thieves, madame; everyone knows that.”
Belle was about to press her for more information, when their hiding place was discovered. The Mademoiselle de Vignerot popped out from behind the pillar and planted her hands on her hips.
“Here she is!” she cried out, clutching Belle’s forearm and pulling her back into the scrutiny of the dining room. “We thought we lost you, madame.”
“What a pity that would have been,” Belle replied, glancing back at Marguerite with a grin. But her tone went unnoticed among her companions.
Mademoiselle Dupont handed her a glass of champagne. “We were just wondering when you plan on making your debut at Versailles. Virginie guessed that you’ll be waiting for the fall so as to give Rose Bertin enough time to craft for you an entire wardrobe, seeing as you’ll be needing one.”
Belle ignored the insult and focused instead on making her intentions abundantly clear. “I won’t be attending court.”
The group of ladies fell silent, each wearing expressions of true bafflement. The Mademoiselle de Vignerot spoke first. “But, madame, surely you won’t be returning to Aveyon. It is only natural for a princesse étrangère to find a place at court. The queen especially will demand that you are presented to her.”
Belle drew herself up a bit higher. “The people of Aveyon suffered while my husband was ill, so our place is with them.”
