Mat­hil­de bus­t­led aro­und put­ting the ro­om to rights as Chris­ti­an sto­od lis­te­ning with a pa­ined frown to the girls' plun­king. Mat­hil­de's ex­p­res­si­on was pla­cid, sho­wing no­ne of the grim­ness of her in­ter­nal mo­no­lo­gue. Le­aving Cor­de­lia alo­ne aga­in in the clut­c­hes of that mon­s­ter had be­en one of the har­dest things she had ever do­ne. But she too was in the vis­co­unt's con­fi­den­ce, and she knew that Cor­de­lia co­uld not di­sap­pe­ar too early from her hus­band's ro­of. Not un­til the du­el was an es­tab­lis­hed fact wo­uld it be sa­fe for her to go. We­ak as she was now, she co­uldn't ha­ve left her sic­k­bed this af­ter­no­on wit­ho­ut aro­using sus­pi­ci­on.

  Mat­hil­de's mo­uth tig­h­te­ned. She knew of only one thing that co­uld bring on early and se­ve­re men­s­t­ru­ati­on: sa­vin. The prin­ce had for­ced Cor­de­lia to ta­ke the ju­ice of the herb sa­vin.

  Mat­hil­de had at­ten­ded many a mis­car­ri­age and the­re was usu­al­ly so­me sign of the lost em­b­r­yo. She had fo­und not­hing in the det­ri­tus that mor­ning, but Prin­ce Mic­ha­el wo­uld pay a hefty pri­ce for that act of po­in­t­less bru­ta­lity.

  Cor­de­lia sto­od in the dar­k­ness at the back of the the­ater that Ma­da­me de Pom­pa­do­ur had bu­ilt in the pa­la­ce to en­ter­ta­in her ro­yal lo­ver. She le­aned aga­inst a pil­lar, wis­hing she co­uld sit down, but if she was to ke­ep her pre­sen­ce a sec­ret then she had to ke­ep to the sha­dows of the audi­to­ri­um. The play it­self no mo­re in­te­res­ted her than it did the co­ur­ti­ers, jaded af­ter the we­ek of wed­ding fes­ti­vi­ti­es and in ne­ed of so­met­hing mo­re sti­mu­la­ting than a play to amu­se them. Even the king was se­en to nod off now and aga­in, and the bri­dal co­up­le ap­pe­ared bo­red and dis­sa­tis­fi­ed.

  Cor­de­lia mo­ved for­ward a lit­tle so that she co­uld see mo­re of the audi­en­ce. Her hus­band sat with fri­ends in a box in the first ti­er, op­po­si­te the ro­yal box. He had his eyes clo­sed and was cle­arly in­dif­fe­rent to the sta­ge. Cor­de­lia won­de­red if she wo­uld ever aga­in be ab­le fa­ce him wit­ho­ut fe­ar. Last night he had bro­ken her and he knew it. The re­cog­ni­ti­on bro­ught a fresh wa­ve of we­ak­ness, and her kne­es tur­ned to wa­ter. She grab­bed hold of the pil­lar, res­ting her che­ek aga­inst the cold sto­ne, un­til the wa­ve pas­sed. As so­on as the play was over… as so­on as she dis­co­ve­red why she wasn't sup­po­sed to be he­re… she wo­uld be ab­le to re­turn to bed.

  She had se­en Leo sit­ting in the pit, in the front row, la­ug­hing and tal­king in the in­ter­val to his com­pa­ni­ons. He didn't glan­ce on­ce in the di­rec­ti­on of Prin­ce Mic­ha­el and be­ha­ved as if he hadn't a ca­re in the world. Did he know what had hap­pe­ned to Cor­de­lia? Or did he as­su­me she was with the girls in Chris­ti­an's lod­gings as he'd di­rec­ted? She was be­gin­ning to fe­el qu­e­asy with an an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on tin­ged with pre­mo­ni­ti­on.

  The play's fi­na­le re­ce­ived de­sul­tory ap­pla­use and the audi­en­ce was pre­pa­ring to le­ave when Leo ma­de his mo­ve. He ro­se in an al­most le­isu­rely mo­ve­ment, then sprang lightly on­to the sta­ge.

  Cor­de­lia's he­art ban­ged wildly aga­inst her ribs, and for a dre­ad­ful mi­nu­te she tho­ught she wo­uld fa­int. She clung to her pil­lar, her eyes fi­xed al­most pa­in­ful­ly on the le­an, dark-clad fi­gu­re on the sta­ge.

  Leo wal­ked to the very ed­ge of the sta­ge and bo­wed to the king in the ro­yal box. "Yo­ur Ma­j­esty, I ma­ke pe­ti­ti­on ac­cor­ding to the law." His vo­ice was cle­ar and car­rying. The audi­en­ce stop­ped fid­ge­ting, was ri­ve­ted. The king lo­oked as­to­un­ded. Co­ur­ti­ers pe­ti­ti­oned him con­s­tantly, for fa­vors, pen­si­ons, ad­van­ce­ment for re­la­ti­ves, but al­ways in pri­va­te, and al­ways thro­ugh his mi­nis­ters.

  "You puz­zle us, Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton." He res­ted his be­rin­ged hands on the blue vel­vet ra­il of the box. "Are we to be tre­ated to a third act of the play?" He smi­led at his lit­tle ple­asantry and tho­se aro­und him po­li­tely chuc­k­led.

  "In a man­ner of spe­aking, Yo­ur Ma­j­esty," Leo res­pon­ded, wit­ho­ut so much as a flic­ker of an eye­lid, a twitch of a mus­c­le. "I cla­im the an­ci­ent right of a brot­her to aven­ge the mur­der of a sis­ter by pub­lic tri­al of arms."

  The gasp that went aro­und the audi­en­ce was al­most synchro­ni­zed. Pe­op­le tur­ned to lo­ok at each ot­her, but no one sa­id a word. It was for the king to spe­ak.

  "Su­rely you jest, Vis­co­unt." His vo­ice was he­avy with dis­p­le­asu­re. Lack of har­mony at Ver­sa­il­les was for­bid­den by ro­yal dec­ree.

  "No, mon­se­ig­ne­ur. I do not." Leo tur­ned and lo­oked di­rectly up at Prin­ce Mic­ha­el. "With a war­rant for se­arch and se­izu­re, I can lay hands on evi­den­ce that Prin­ce Mic­ha­el von Sac­h­sen po­iso­ned Lady El­vi­ra Be­a­umont, his first wi­fe."

  The col­lec­ti­ve gasp this ti­me re­ver­be­ra­ted from the raf­ters. All eyes swi­ve­led to Prin­ce Mic­ha­el's box. He was de­athly pa­le, un­mo­ving.

  In the sha­dows, Cor­de­lia strug­gled to cle­ar her mind. What did Leo me­an? What was a pub­lic tri­al of arms?

  "What do­es this evi­den­ce con­sist of, Lord Ki­er­s­ton?"

  "Prin­ce von Sac­h­sen's own words, ta­ken from his da­ily jo­ur­nals."

  At the­se words Mic­ha­el jer­ked as if he we­re a pup­pet on a string. In­vo­lun­ta­rily, he sta­red, hor­ror-st­ruck, at the king, who lo­oked ac­ross at him, the ro­yal ex­p­res­si­on cold with dis­tas­te.

  "If such a war­rant we­re is­su­ed, sir, wo­uld you ha­ve any obj­ec­ti­on?" the king de­man­ded harshly in the de­athly hush. All eyes re­ma­ined fi­xed upon Mic­ha­el. He had the at­ten­ti­on of ever­yo­ne in the the­ater; pe­op­le unac­cus­to­med to pa­ying at­ten­ti­on to the most sub­li­me mu­sic, the most elo­qu­ent po­etry, the most ma­j­es­tic pro­se, we­re stun­ned to si­len­ce.

  Mic­ha­el half ro­se from his cha­ir. He mo­is­te­ned dry lips. He fo­ught for words. On the sta­ge be­low him, his ac­cu­ser re­ma­ined still aga­inst the scar­let and gold bac­k­d­rop of the the­ater.

  The si­len­ce in the the­ater was ab­so­lu­te. Then the king sa­id with the sa­me cold an­ger, "You co­uld di­rect our in­ves­ti­ga­tors to this evi­den­ce, Lord Ki­er­s­ton?"

  "I co­uld, mon­se­ig­ne­ur. But I cla­im the an­ci­ent right of tri­al by com­bat."

  Once mo­re Leo lo­oked up at Mic­ha­el, and the icy tri­umph in his gol­den eyes chil­led the prin­ce to the bo­ne.

  "Prin­ce von Sac­h­sen?" The king spo­ke crisply now. "Do you ac­cept Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton's chal­len­ge?"

  Mic­ha­el ro­se. He bo­wed to the king. He bo­wed to Leo. "I will pro­ve my in­no­cen­ce ac­cor­ding to an­ci­ent law, Yo­ur Ma­j­esty."

  "As the de­fen­dant, the cho­ice of we­apons is yo­urs." "I cho­ose ra­pi­ers, mon­se­ig­ne­ur."

  Cor­de­lia grip­ped her hands tightly to­get­her, the na­ils bi­ting in­to her palm. Her he­ad buz­zed. She wan­ted to scre­am. She wan­ted to fall on Leo and pum­mel him to the gro­und. How co­uld he do such a thing? Risk ever­y­t­hing? His li­fe, the­ir fu­tu­re. The chil­d­ren. What kind of ven­ge­an­ce was it when the sword co­uld as easily be tur­ned upon the aven­ger?

  No won­der he hadn't wan­ted her to wit­ness this su­ici­dal, pri­de­ful chal­len­ge.

  "The pub­lic tri­al of arms will ta­ke pla­ce in the town squ­are at sun­ri­se to­mor­row," the king an­no­un­ced. "You will both re­mo­ve yo­ur­sel­ves be­yond the ga­tes of Ver­sa­il­les un­til such ti­me as this af­fa­ir is set­tled and we ma­ke our ple­asu­re known."

  The king swept from his box, the da­up­hin and his bri­de on his he­els. The si­lent co­urt sto­od ba­re­he­aded un­til the ro­yal party left.

  Cor­de­lia, still numb with shock and hor­ror, stum­b­led blindly to the exit amid the tu­mult erup­ting in the audi­to­ri­um af­ter the king's de­par­tu­re. She had to get back to her own cham­ber, back in­to bed, be­fo­re Mic­ha­el re­tur­ned. For the mo­ment, she had to play the in­no­cent wha­te­ver he sus­pec­ted, whi­le she tri­ed to de­ci­de what to do.

  Leo was aban­do­ning her. If he di­ed at Mic­ha­el's hand, she was con­dem­ned. But as she hur­ri­ed on sha­king legs thro­ugh the cor­ri­dors to her own apar­t­ment, the angry tur­mo­il of bet­ra­yal be­gan to smo­oth out. Leo had wan­ted her and the chil­d­ren out of the pa­la­ce be­fo­re this who­le bu­si­ness ex­p­lo­ded. That way they we­re po­ised for flight. But what go­od was flight to her if the­re was no end to it? She co­uld con­tem­p­la­te wa­iting for Leo for a ye­ar is she had to. But if he was de­ad on the du­eling gro­und, the­re wo­uld be no fu­tu­re. By is­su­ing this chal­len­ge, he was aban­do­ning her. He was aban­do­ning the­ir own hap­pi­ness for a per­so­nal ven­det­ta.

  Her mind was fil­led with the ima­ge of Leo's body limp on the gro­und, ble­eding from her hus­band's ra­pi­er. May­be Leo wo­uld win. But she co­uld to­le­ra­te not­hing but cer­ta­inty, and the­re was no cer­ta­inty in a du­el.

  She en­te­red the apar­t­ment, bre­at­h­less with has­te and we­ak­ness. Mon­si­e­ur Bri­on lo­oked at her, first in as­to­nis­h­ment and then in con­cern. "Ma­da­me… is so­met­hing the mat­ter?"

  "Send El­sie to me." She stum­b­led ac­ross the sa­lon and in­to her own cham­ber. She ca­ught sight of her ima­ge in the glass and un­der­s­to­od why Bri­on had lo­oked so shoc­ked. Her eyes we­re al­most wild in her whi­te fa­ce, her ha­ir tum­b­ling from its pins. She lo­oked as if she'd se­en and run from a ghost.

  She be­gan to un­d­ress with fe­ve­rish has­te, her fin­gers, slip­pery with swe­at, fum­b­ling with the ho­oks and but­tons.

  Elsie hur­ri­ed in. "Oh, ma­da­me, I knew you sho­uldn't ha­ve got up," she sa­id, wrin­ging her hands. "You're not well eno­ugh. Shall I fetch the physi­ci­an?"

  "No, just help me back in­to bed."

  In fi­ve mi­nu­tes Cor­de­lia was lying back aga­inst the pil­lows, pra­ying her he­art wo­uld slow its pa­in­ful, na­use­ating ban­ging aga­inst her ribs. She was ex­ha­us­ted, still con­s­ci­o­us of the ste­ady flow of blo­od from her body. But mer­ci­ful­ly, it didn't se­em to ha­ve wor­se­ned des­pi­te all the stan­ding and run­ning.

  The do­or to the sa­lon ban­ged shut, and Mic­ha­el's vo­ice, harsh, sa­va­ge, rent the wa­iting qu­i­et. "Bri­on, pack a va­li­se and send Fre­de­rick with it to the Coq d'Or in town. He's to awa­it me the­re. At on­ce, man! Don't stand the­re lo­oking at me li­ke a half-wit."

  Cor­de­lia held her bre­ath, wa­iting. Then the do­or burst open and Mic­ha­el stro­de in. "Get out!" He jer­ked a hand at El­sie, who, with a frig­h­te­ned gasp, cur­t­si­ed and ran from the ro­om.

  Mic­ha­el ca­me over to the bed. His fa­ce was whi­te, with a whi­ter sha­de aro­und his drawn mo­uth. He lo­oked at her, thro­ugh her, with his cold pa­le eyes. "What do you know of this, who­re?" His vo­ice was sur­p­ri­singly soft.

  Cor­de­lia sa­id not­hing. She tur­ned her he­ad away.

  With a fo­ul oath, he bent over her, wren­c­hing her fa­ce back to­ward him. "Did you plot this with him? How did he know abo­ut the jo­ur­nals?"

  His fin­gers squ­e­ezed her chin and it was all she co­uld do not to cry out. But she was de­ter­mi­ned she wo­uld not show him her fe­ar. "I don't know what you're tal­king abo­ut, my lord. I ha­ve be­en abed. You ma­de cer­ta­in of that."

  "You can't fo­ol me with yo­ur de­ce­it­ful ton­gue," he spat, brin­ging his fa­ce very clo­se to hers, so that she co­uld smell the so­ur­ness of his bre­ath, the mus­ki­ness of his skin. "I will kill yo­ur dam­ned lo­ver, and then, by God, who­re, you will ne­ver es­ca­pe me un­til I de­ci­de it's ti­me for you to me­et yo­ur de­ath. Do you un­der­s­tand me!" His mo­uth was al­most to­uc­hing hers now in a vi­le si­mu­la­ti­on of a kiss. "Do you un­der­s­tand?" His spit­tle sho­we­red her fa­ce.

  "I un­der­s­tand you," she ma­na­ged to say thro­ugh the wa­ves of dis­gust. "And you un­der­s­tand, hus­band, that you will ne­ver bre­ak me. I will die first."

  He la­ug­hed and ab­ruptly re­le­ased her chin. "I've bro­ken you al­re­ady, my de­ar wi­fe. Don't you re­ali­ze it?" He sto­od up. "You and my da­ug­h­ters will jo­ur­ney im­me­di­ately to Pa­ris. You will awa­it me in the rue du Bac. When I ha­ve kil­led yo­ur lo­ver, I will co­me to you."

  Cor­de­lia pul­led her­self up aga­inst the pil­lows. She wi­ped her fa­ce with a cor­ner of the she­et. "And just how do you plan to kill him, my lord?"

  He sta­red at her with an ar­res­ted ex­p­res­si­on. "You don't know?"

  "How sho­uld I, my lord?" She met his sta­re calmly and had the sa­tis­fac­ti­on of se­e­ing un­cer­ta­inty scud­ding ac­ross his co­un­te­nan­ce.

  "At sun­ri­se to­mor­row I will spit him on the end of my ra­pi­er," Mic­ha­el ar­ti­cu­la­ted slowly. "I'm sorry you won't be the­re to see it, my de­ar, but I want you sa­fely put away. Thanks to yo­ur dam­nab­le lo­ver, we will be per­so­na non gra­ta at co­urt af­ter the du­el un­til the king is pre­pa­red to for­get this dis­tas­te­ful dis­rup­ti­on." Mic­ha­el's lip cur­led as he mi­mic­ked the king's aus­te­re eup­he­mism for the du­el un­to de­ath that wo­uld ta­ke pla­ce in his pre­sen­ce. "The da­up­hi­ne will of­fer you no pro­tec­ti­on now, ma­da­me."

  He wa­ited to see if she wo­uld re­act, but she re­ma­ined still, re­gar­ding him al­most in­dif­fe­rently un­til his un­cer­ta­inty grew. Then he spun on his he­el and left by way of her dres­sing ro­om.

  Cor­de­lia wo­uldn't ha­ve be­li­eved it pos­sib­le to fe­el such hat­red for a fel­low hu­man be­ing. But Mic­ha­el did not fall in­to that ca­te­gory, she tho­ught. He was a de­vil, a mon­s­ter from the pits of hell. And he wo­uld re­turn to the fi­res that had gi­ven him birth. Leo wo­uld pit­c­h­fork him right back in­to the in­fer­no. She wo­uld not al­low her­self to con­si­der the al­ter­na­ti­ve. She had to plan. She had to pre­vent Mic­ha­el from sen­ding her back to Pa­ris. She had to stay he­re. She had to be he­re when it hap­pe­ned. And the chil­d­ren. They must be ta­ken to sa­fety to­night. Mat­hil­de wo­uld ha­ve to go with them be­ca­use she co­uldn't go her­self. Not now.

  She was run­ning thro­ugh her plans when El­sie re­tur­ned, her eyes re­ve­rently fi­xed to the let­ter re­po­sing on a sil­ver sal­ver. The wax bo­re the da­up­hi­ne's se­al. "A mes­sen­ger bro­ught this from Her Hig­h­ness, ma­da­me." She prof­fe­red the sal­ver, too awed to to­uch the august pa­per her­self.

  Cor­de­lia to­ok it and slit the wa­fer. The mes­sa­ge was short and she knew that To­inet­te had writ­ten it at dic­ta­ti­on. Pre­su­mably by the No­a­il­les: De­ar Prin­cess von Sac­h­sen, I very much reg­ret that I will be unab­le to re­ce­ive you un­til His Ma­j­esty per­mits. Ma­ria An­to­nia.

  Cor­de­lia nib­bled her lip, ga­zing at the cold words that me­ant the of­fi­ci­al end of fri­en­d­s­hip. Then she saw that a cor­ner of the pa­per had be­en fol­ded over. She ope­ned it. De­arest, I can't help it. But I will al­ways lo­ve you. T.

  Cor­de­lia to­uc­hed the mes­sa­ge to her lips in a bri­ef, symbo­lic fa­re­well. When this was over, she wo­uld find a way to 'cor­res­pond with To­inet­te. The­re we­re al­ways unof­fi­ci­al chan­nels.

  Elsie still sto­od by the bed, wi­de-eyed with the mo­men­to­us­ness of events. Her ga­ze was fil­led with sympathy for her po­or mis­t­ress. To lo­se a preg­nancy and then fa­ce the pros­pect of be­ing wi­do­wed in the mor­ning. It was a dre­ad­ful thing. "Ever­yo­ne says what a mag­ni­fi­cent swor­d­s­man the prin­ce is, ma­da­me," she of­fe­red in mis­gu­ided re­as­su­ran­ce. "They say he's ne­ver be­en de­fe­ated in a du­el be­fo­re and he al­ways fights to the de­ath. He kil­led ten men in ten months on­ce… al­t­ho­ugh he was a lot yo­un­ger then."

  That pre­su­mably ex­p­la­ined Mic­ha­el's con­fi­den­ce, Cor­de­lia tho­ught bit­terly. How many du­els had Leo fo­ught? How many men had he kil­led?

  "Bring me so­me tea, ple­ase, El­sie." She had to get rid of the girl with her inar­ti­cu­la­te sympathy and hand-wrin­ging be­fo­re she burst in­to te­ars.

  Mon­si­e­ur Bri­on was her next vi­si­tor. He sto­od aw­k­wardly in the do­or­way of the cham­ber. "The prin­ce has in­s­t­ruc­ted me to es­cort yo­ur­self and Mes­da­mes Sylvie and Ame­lia back to Pa­ris im­me­di­ately, ma­da­me. Wo­uld you be go­od eno­ugh to in­s­t­ruct yo­ur ma­id to help you ri­se?"

  "Mon­si­e­ur Bri­on, I am not re­tur­ning to Pa­ris to­night," Cor­de­lia dec­la­red. "And ne­it­her are the chil­d­ren."

  "But, ma­da­me!" He lo­oked as­to­un­ded.

  "You will not suf­fer, I pro­mi­se you," she sa­id. "If the prin­ce sur­vi­ves this du­el, then I will gi­ve you suf­fi­ci­ent funds to free you from his ser­vi­ce." She pus­hed asi­de the co­vers and ro­se so­mew­hat sha­kily to her fe­et. She went to the dres­ser and ope­ned her jewel cas­ket. "He­re. Pay­ment in ad­van­ce, mon­si­e­ur." She held out to him a sap­phi­re ring. "You will know how to sell it?"

  Bri­on nod­ded, slowly ta­king the ring. He had con­tacts in Pa­ris who wo­uld gi­ve him a go­od pri­ce and ask no qu­es­ti­ons. He co­uld get eno­ugh for the ba­ub­le to set him­self up in a snug inn in the lit­tle vil­la­ge in Cog­nac, whe­re he'd grown up. He'd be set for li­fe.

  "What wo­uld you ha­ve me do, ma­da­me?"

 

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