Enchantée(114)

At a window, she heard raised voices coming from outside. In the courtyard below, a farm horse had been hitched to a wagon. It was piled high with bureaux, thin-limbed side tables, great trunks wound around with ropes, a long mirror. In front of the wagon waited a dull black carriage, nothing fancy, two mismatched horses in its traces. A man in a drab suit, a white wig in his hand, stood arguing with the wagon driver.

The door of the carriage snapped open and a woman descended, so plainly dressed that Camille’s first incongruous thought was that she was a servant. Then she recognized the woman’s elegant way of walking, the way she held her head: she was the queen’s favorite, the Duchess de Polignac. Snatching the wig from her husband’s hand, she thrust it at the driver and pointed for him to get down. Once the driver was on the ground and wearing the wig, her husband climbed up onto the box and took the reins. She returned to the carriage with the driver and closed the door once both of them were inside. With a crack of the whip, the horses lunged into a canter; the wagon lumbered after them and soon was gone.

Dread crept along her skin, cold as ink. The queen had said the powerful Polignacs were going to Switzerland. And perhaps they were. But disguised as servants? Their wagon was loaded with the most expensive things they had. They were fleeing Versailles, just like Aurélie.

As Camille watched, another carriage pulled into the courtyard, and a second couple, older, slower, made their way to it. This woman wept into her handkerchief. They were all leaving, escaping the coming storm. Camille walked faster.

The empty corridors showed another side now. Instead of clandestine, they seemed abandoned. Haunted. Under the ceiling, black mold bloomed where rain had come in. A painting had been cut from its frame, which now hung blindly on its nail. Outside a closed door, a reeking chamber pot waited. No servant had come to empty it. Chandon had said the glamoire the magicians had worked for the Sun King was crumbling like old cake. Now it was decomposing.



* * *



When she found the vicomte’s door, it was no different than any other.

She knocked and a valet admitted her, stiff and as proud as his master. He showed her into a high-ceilinged sitting room. A fine old tapestry hung on the far wall. In it, a curly-haired unicorn knelt by a fountain, stirring the water with his horn. Among the books and piles of paper, she hoped she might find some evidence that Sophie had been there: a glove or a glossy green feather from her hat.

But there was nothing.

When the Vicomte de Séguin entered the room, he bowed, elegant as always. “Bonsoir, Baroness—or should I say, Mademoiselle Durbonne? I hope you’ve been comfortable.”

Of course he would make certain to use her real name, to remind her of her powerlessness. Where was she supposed to start? She took a deep breath and plunged in: “I wish to know the whereabouts of my sister, monsieur.”

Séguin waved his hand at his valet, who stood silently by a bookcase. “You may go.”

It didn’t mean anything that he’d dismissed his servant, Camille tried to tell herself. It’s commonplace. Still, the sound of the door clicking closed made her uneasy.

“Your sister is safe, mademoiselle. And happy. She would never want to worry you.”

“I’m certain she is,” Camille said, though she wasn’t at all sure. “Is she here? I’d like to see her as soon as possible.”

He smiled, as if with regret.

“Why not?” Camille insisted. “She’s my sister.”

“What do you think I am? A monster? She’s at my home in Paris, which is in fact where she wished to go. She’ll be quite safe there. Until you decide.” Séguin opened the lid of his snuffbox and offered it to her.

Camille stared. “Decide what?”

“What you will do.” He took a pinch of snuff. “I don’t wish to marry her. Wasn’t that obvious when I tried to ask for your hand?”

Obvious? Who could possibly know what he meant to do? “Sophie believes she is in love with you.”

“Your sister is in love with my title, my money—” He gestured at the things in the room. “Everything I have.”

“Why take her, then?”

“Come, you must have anticipated it. You’re so clever at cards,” he said. “It’s one of the things I admire about you.”

Séguin has set a plan in motion. But what was it? “How long have you been planning this?”

Séguin shrugged. “Since you ignored my overtures, in the king’s garden. Perhaps I was too subtle?” he added, more to himself than to her.

“Why should you want anything to do with me? I’m a pretend baroness, a printer’s daughter.” It made no sense. “Besides,” she said, grasping onto the one particular he’d mentioned, “it was an accident that I ran into you there.”

“There aren’t many true accidents, mademoiselle. And if it hadn’t been there, it would have been somewhere else. Eventually.” He shook out the lace under his cuffs. “And no, it wasn’t your upbringing as a printer’s daughter that drew me to you. In fact, that is something I’ve had to overcome.”

He held out his ringed hands to her. She shoved hers deep into the folds of her skirt.

Séguin laughed. “I like the way you consistently resist me—how’s that for an answer?” He took another step closer; Camille tried not to shrink from him. “I have wanted you since I first sat with you at the gaming table and watched you turn cards with la magie. How innocently you did it, as if there were not two magicians observing you! Do you remember that night? You had that snuffbox? I wanted you as soon as I saw how much you cared.”