Enchantée(126)

“You’ll sing a different tune when the vicomte returns,” Alain said. “All of you. I did what was best for me, and for Sophie. Did you even consider us,” he said to Camille, “while you were gallivanting about Versailles and sailing around in balloons and doing God-knows-what with him—”

“Tais-toi, Alain,” she warned. “I may have done wrong, but I tried to do right. You forgot that distinction long ago. You forgot what right was when you stole from us, when you cut me and hit me.”

“You deserved it all.”

Lazare brought the point of his sword to a spot above Alain’s cravat. “Careful, monsieur.”

“I took care of you both.” Camille ached with regret. All those nights of playing cards until she could barely stand, working the glamoire over and over until the inside of her arm was a constellation of crimson wounds and her soul felt hollowed out. She had grown thin and so sick, while Sophie grew sleek on good food and rest. And then when they had money, and Alain had asked for it, hadn’t she given it to him?

“I never wanted your help.” His face flushed. “When I asked you for money outside the courtyard door, in the letter—that was because Séguin forced me to. He wanted to weaken you. I only played my part.”

As if playing a part meant he shouldered no blame. “He was the one who held your debts?”

“That was how it started,” he admitted. “We had nothing, if you remember, when our parents died. So, like all of Paris, I went to gamble at the Palais-Royal. I was careful and played small at first, low bets, but when I kept winning, I moved to the big tables and the high stakes. And why not?” he said, scowling at Camille. “I was good, and I was lucky.

“Then, my luck changed. I lost. Many times. Still, there were many who were happy to lend me livres or louis to tide me over, so I might play again and win it all back. But something was wrong. I could never win as much as I needed to,” he said, as if it still mystified him. “There was a nobleman who often played, and offered to help. Séguin was rich, and in the beginning he never asked to be repaid. Sometimes he’d beg something small from me in return for the money he gave me. Like that miniature of you and Sophie.”

“You gave him that? When?” Camille demanded. If Séguin had been given the miniature, he would have recognized her and Sophie. From the very beginning.

“What does it matter?”

Lazare was unable to contain himself. “Don’t you understand? Séguin nearly ran over—or pretended to run over—Mademoiselle Sophie in the Place des Vosges!” he exclaimed. “Did Séguin know of her then?”

“Who knows?” Alain said. “Sophie was fine, wasn’t she?”

That was the day she’d run into Lazare outside the apothecary’s. And she’d been to the apothecary because Alain had hit her. And when he’d hit her, and she’d sprawled bleeding on the floor, she’d seen that his watch chain was empty. Séguin had recognized Camille the first time she’d seen him.

“You had betrayed us, even then,” Camille said, her rage icy cold. “Séguin knew what he was doing—if not when he nearly knocked her down, but certainly when he saw her face. Our faces.” Pacing to the door with its broken pane, she tried to gain control of herself. Through the shattered glass, she watched the coachman wiping the carriage wheels carefully, lovingly, clean of mud.

“And then, Alain, let me guess? When your debts were sufficiently large so that you could not deny him his request, he told you he wished to meet your little sister? That he might make her a nice offer of marriage? And then, he’d call it even.”

“It wasn’t like that!” Alain stormed. “Sophie wanted to! She was pleased!”

“I didn’t know what he was, Alain,” Sophie said. “Didn’t you always tell me I’d marry high? I wanted so to believe you. I trusted you. But the vicomte was horrible.”

“That’s enough.” Alain’s chest heaved. “Now that you got your little story, get out, both of you. You don’t belong here.”

Except—Camille suddenly realized—she did.

Standing there in her tattered cloth-of-gold dress, under thirty burning candles, the scent of Séguin’s magic mingling with the lilies’ fragrance, and his cipher woven in gold into a tapestry that hung on the wall, Camille did, in fact, belong.

She spoke to the maid. “When Monsieur leaves the house, lock the door behind him.”

“What the hell?”

Camille blazed at him, defiant. “As it happens, I married the vicomte early this morning. Didn’t you realize that was part of his plan? I’m the new Vicomtesse de Séguin.” The title felt strange in her mouth, but powerful. “The vicomte, however, is dead. This house belongs to me.”

Alain stared, bewildered. “Dead? But I was to have what I wanted! He promised. For what I’d done—helping him get to Sophie, delivering his letters, softening her up—he was to give me the management of his country estate, while he remained in Paris.”

“It’s no longer his estate, Alain. It’s mine.”

“She’s right,” Lazare said. “Your part is finished.”

Alain grabbed the great silver vase, chased with gold, by far the richest object in the hall. “I’ll take this, then. As payment for services rendered.”