Enchantée(113)

Willing herself not to scream with frustration, Camille stood. “Thank you, Majesté. I appreciate anything that you can do for my sister,” she said as she bowed deeply. She rose, expecting the queen to have returned to her toilette, but found instead that Marie Antoinette was looking at her in the mirror.

“Madame, if you do find the Vicomte de Séguin, remember one thing.”

“Yes, Majesté?”

Her voice dropped to the lowest of whispers, pitched so it wouldn’t carry.

“He cheats.”

Chandon had said the same thing, the first time Camille came to court. It felt as though he had said that to her a year ago, a hundred years ago, in the reign of another king, another queen.

Séguin cheats. This was the queen’s best advice? Her royal help?

Walking backward out of the room, Camille made three deep reverences and, turning, blundered through the doorway into the antechamber, where she paused to settle her swaying skirts. The little room was only big enough for two chairs and a small table, on which stood an enameled music box.

Camille seethed. She didn’t know what she had expected from the queen; she had no illusions that a queen was anything like a god. But Marie Antoinette did control things at court. Why ever had she listened to Madame de Théron? Camille might be back in Paris, scouring the streets, talking to Madame Bénard at the shop, searching for Alain—anything but standing here with empty hands.

She picked up the music box, weighing it. Imagined hurling it into the oval mirror on the far wall and watching the mirror shatter, the shards crash to the floor.

“Why ever would you do a thing like that?” a rich voice said from the doorway.

Camille turned.

Séguin reclined against the doorjamb, his ringed fingers resting lightly on the jeweled pommel of his sword. His close-fitting cream-colored suit was, as always, richly embroidered, uncreased, and immaculately clean. She could see what Sophie found irresistible: he was handsome, powerful, and very rich. He took a step forward and his cologne slipped into the room ahead of him: incense like in church, the bitter bite of cloves.

“Madame la Baroness,” he said, bowing. “Quelle surprise.”

Camille suspected there were no surprises where Séguin was concerned. “I’m trying to find my sister,” she said, speaking as lightly as she could. “Perhaps you know where she is?”

Séguin stepped further into the room. “I might.”

“You must tell me, monsieur.”

“Must I?” he said, teasingly. “Has anyone told you how charming you are when you’re angry? In the tumult of last night, I may have forgotten to do it myself.”

The past days and weeks were a blur, something Camille couldn’t see clearly, a view through a rain-streaked windowpane. But she knew that Séguin had been ready to propose marriage, once—even if she’d stopped him from saying the words. He might still care for her, and that would be something to use. A coin to turn.

“I’m anxious to see her, Vicomte. She’s been gone two days. Do tell me, where is she?” She kept her voice pleasant. Pretending.

“If you wish to know more about your sister, come to my apartments in the courtiers’ wing in a half-hour’s time. I’ll be happy to tell you everything I know. Any footman may direct you. You must excuse me, mademoiselle—I have business with the queen that cannot wait.”

He strolled into the queen’s chamber and called out a greeting.

Camille set the music box down on the table. Her palm was slick with sweat.

In the anteroom’s gilt-edged mirror, she saw the queen embrace the Vicomte de Séguin.





60


Hurrying through seldom-used passages, Camille managed to avoid the Hall of Mirrors with its gossiping crowds, the courtiers grumbling outside the king’s chambers. She slipped unseen through what had once been an unknowable labyrinth of hallways, but was now as familiar to her as the lines on her palm. The problem of Sophie was a puzzle without a solution. How would she get her back?

Perhaps Sophie didn’t even wish to return. Camille would have to prepare herself for the possibility. If Sophie said no, Camille could tell her that Séguin had almost proposed to her first. She could reveal that he was a dangerous magician, blackmailing Chandon and weaving a web that Lazare was also caught in—but even then Sophie could laugh and say it was nothing to her.

Another problem was Séguin himself. As Camille took a back staircase, she thought of his still, watchful face, his knowing smile. How he’d blackmailed Chandon by using his love for Foudriard. The vile things he’d said about Lazare and the poor. The way he caught her off-guard, made her afraid to meet him when she was alone. What he knew about her. In those moments, he seemed to be her mortal enemy. But then she remembered how his fingers had gently traced the lines of her palm while he’d offered to help her avoid the traps at court, his almost-proposal in the king’s garden, his fury when he’d caught her looking for Lazare at the party.

She paused at the top of the steps, hand on the banister. It seemed very much like the behavior of someone in love.

With half an hour to waste, Camille forced herself to take her time. She might never again return to Versailles. Wandering down lesser halls, she passed dozens of rooms, listening to the lonely echo of her heels on the floors. These last two months, she’d used these hidden passages and servants’ stairs when she felt the glamoire waning; they were usually empty. She rarely saw anyone else, and if she did, they were using the passages for the same reason she was: to avoid being seen. They would nod at one another, and keep going. These corridors had been safe places. But today they were eerily quiet.