Enchantée(100)

“The game calls you, I see.” His voice was strained. “I’d hoped to speak to you, but I won’t keep you any longer, Baroness.”

“Perhaps later?” she said, her eyes searching the room. Where is he?

“Certainly. What I have to say can wait. If you’d like to try your luck at the tables, the Marquis de Chandon’s stepped in as dealer for me tonight.” With a small bow, he backed away, letting her pass.

As Camille made her way through the raucous crowd, greeting courtiers she knew, she searched the tables for the dark gloss of Lazare’s hair and the washed-out brown of Chandon’s. He must not be so very sick anymore, if he were acting as dealer tonight. At the edge of the crowd surrounding the last table, she looked back over her shoulder. In contrast to the swirl and flash of the movement all around him, Séguin stood very still.

The tiny hairs on her arms rose.

The Vicomte de Séguin’s face was impassive, held tightly in place by an inner discipline, more a sculpture of a face than a living one. Except for his golden eyes, which blazed with an emotion very much like fury.





52


Camille blanched when she saw they were playing faro.

It was not for nothing that the game had been outlawed for a hundred years. Friendships lost, fortunes, too; duels, murder, and suicide followed behind it like a ravening shadow. When Madame Lamotte had warned Camille not to gamble, faro was what she meant. But dire consequences and rumors never stopped anyone from playing. People lost great sums of money, but they also won big, more than at any other game.

And if one had debts, it was easy to believe faro’s promises.

The card game was played at a long and narrow table. Several players sat on one side, as if at supper, with the dealer at the center of the table on the opposite side. Laid down the middle was a cloth on which had been printed one of every card in the suit of spades. Those who wished to bet placed their chips on the card they thought would come up when the dealer drew. Each round, two cards were drawn by the dealer from a small, wooden dealing box. The first was the dealer’s card, called the “loser,” and if a player had placed his money on that card, he would lose it to the bank. The second card was the players’ card, the “winner,” and if a player bet on that, he would win. A kind of abacus with pictures of every card in the suit was used to keep track of which cards had been played.

Each round allowed for a fresh bet, a chance to win back what one had lost. This was faro’s delectable poison: the belief one might win again. To be made new, if only one dared to risk it. When nearly all the cards had been played, the stakes soared and the betting grew fierce. Dangerous.

Standing in the crowd around the table, Camille had been spotted by Aurélie, who nudged Lord Willsingham. He leaped from his chair and waved her over. “Take my seat, madame! We could use your luck!”

“Merci, Lord Willsingham,” she called out.

“La Fontaine!” Willsingham shouted. “Make way! Make way!” People around him began to applaud and the crowd stood aside to let her through. “Sit next to the Marquise de Valledoré, won’t you?” Willsingham said, pulling out the chair. “I’ll just stand behind. Watch from a safe distance, what?”

As banker, Chandon sat at the center of the table, a leopard-spotted deck of cards in his hands. His skin was the gray of smoke. Harsh lines ran from his nose and pinched his mouth. She’d been hopelessly wrong to assume he was feeling better. He should have been at home, under a physician’s care. But still he smiled when he saw her.

“How wonderful to have you here, madame.”

“You know I love nothing more than a good game of cards,” she said, making the observers laugh. She had often wondered how Chandon kept up his fa?ade despite his illness, but now she knew. They both had their court roles to play.

Settling into her seat, she quickly kissed Aurélie on the cheek. “Happy birthday, mon amie.”

“We’ll see how happy it is,” Aurélie said, archly.

On her left side sat Lazare.

His forehead rested in his hand, his elbow on the table among a cluster of empty wineglasses. With the thumb of his other hand, he drummed on the table. His fine, pistachio-green suit was wrinkled, his cravat hastily tied. His hair was covered by a powdered wig, which she’d never seen him wear before. Its stark whiteness cast into relief the shadows under his eyes. He looked bone-tired, as if he hadn’t slept since she’d seen him at the salon.

Distraught, Rosier had said.

“Baroness,” he said, his voice formal, flat. His dark brown eyes were nearly black. Lost.

Something was terribly wrong. In all her time at Versailles, she had never seen him at the gambling tables. “I didn’t know you gambled, marquis.”

“When I must.” He glanced dully at Chandon, who was shuffling the deck. “Though I can’t say I like it.”

“Then why do it?” she asked. “How long have you been playing today?”

In reply, he turned his right hand over, palm up, on the table. His fingers were chalky white from playing carambole. There were some at court who bet on carambole or other billiards games, but she had never done it. They had a bad reputation.

She clasped his hand. It was hot, fevered, as if it could burn.

“You’re not well,” she said, her voice low. “Come, I’ll find you a lemonade. We will—” She didn’t know what they would do. She knew only she had to get him away from the table.