Enchantée(33)

Aurélie raised a daggerlike eyebrow at Camille. “It’s the court’s favorite pastime, isn’t it? But you won’t find a welcome from me if you do. Foudriard isn’t my husband—he’s Chandon’s lover. Frankly, it’s an injustice even to compare them. My husband isn’t brave and dashing like our handsome Foudriard.”

Foudriard ducked his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

I am an idiot, Camille thought as her cheeks blazed. How could she have made such an error? Now they’d think her a fool, a bumbling girl from the provinces. She knew she shouldn’t care about impressing them—she was there to rob them. But now she wished she could vanish through the parquet floor.

Chandon tried in vain to keep a straight face. “Still, Aurélie, you do have the best kind of husband, don’t you? Isn’t he a hundred years old and staying obediently in the country, breeding prize piglets or some such?”

“One hundred?” Camille’s voice came out as a squeak. Aurélie didn’t look any older than Camille.

Aurélie snickered, which made Camille feel only more lost. Everything she said was wrong.

“Hardly,” Aurélie said. “He’s fifty-four, which is quite old enough. And it’s prize chickens, Chandon, not piglets. It’s just a typical court marriage, non?” she said kindly to Camille. “He doesn’t care much what I do, as long as he hears glowing reports of how lovely and charming I am from his acquaintances at court. If no one sees me misbehave, I can keep my rooms in the palace and my allowance.”

“Your very nice allowance,” added Chandon. “And lovers, if you want them. Though I assume one lover at a time is enough, n’est-ce pas?”

Aurélie mock-frowned at him before she asked Camille, “But what of your husband, madame? He doesn’t like to play?”

Everyone’s attention swiveled to Camille, all three of them regarding her with open curiosity. What an idiotic faux pas she’d made, to bring up the husband, and now this. She had to put it to rest. “He’s dead.”

“Truly?” Foudriard said, rising from his chair. “I’m terribly sorry—”

“Don’t be,” Camille said quickly. “It’s nothing. I mean—” Worse and worse. She should have said nothing at all.

“Well, then!” Aurélie applauded, her rings clinking. “You win, madame! You have the very best kind of husband there is!”

Foudriard raised his glass. “To convenient husbands!”

“To lovers!” Chandon added, clinking glasses with Foudriard. As they toasted, Camille allowed herself a smile. Somehow, she’d saved herself.

“Now we know where all the money comes from. Thank God that’s taken care of!” Chandon pretended to yawn. “Come, mes amis—more cards, more cards! What shall it be?”

“Vingt-et-un?” When the tide had turned against her, Camille had started watching the game closely. There were ways to cheat at lansquenet, though no way she could think of that she could do with magic. But from her game last night with Sophie, she knew that she could win at twenty-one.

The others agreed. Foudriard pressed the button and plates of macarons and strawberries came up in the dumbwaiter. The games went quickly, the betting high and fast. All the best cards came to her and she played so well she had no need to turn any cards with la magie. When the last game was over, she was surprised to see that she had more coins than anyone else. How surprised Sophie would be when Camille spilled the gold and silver out onto the kitchen table! Enough for food, rent, medicine. The near-relief of it was almost overwhelming.

Foudriard rose to light the candles. “You’re not upset your luck has changed?” Aurélie said to Chandon.

“How could I be? The joy is in the game, not winning or losing.” He gathered up the cards and shuffled them so fast that they blurred in his hands. “Maman always reminds me an aristocrat never thinks of money.”

“I’m not too elevated to care,” Camille said. It’s all I think about. She slid twenty livres over to him. “This belongs to you. Thank you for the loan.”

“It’s nothing, madame. I’m beginning to see it was a very fine moment when I found you trying to trick your way into that party. But now,” he said with a devilish grin, “I am going to take all your money.”

“I can’t let that happen,” Camille said as she pushed back her chair. A quick calculation revealed she had close to one hundred and fifty livres. Not enough for the rent, but close. Close enough that Madame Lamotte might give her more time. And then there was the snuffbox.

Chandon fixed her with a sharp look. “It’s bad manners not to give me a chance to win it back.” But his voice was light when he said, “Do stay for one more game.”

She thought of the mix of livres and louis she had, how good her luck had been. Perhaps she might win even more? What could it hurt? The tug of the game was hard to resist, like a sweet rush of sugar. She’d play one more round.

The cards were dealt, bets placed, and play began. But it was as if, until now, Chandon had been letting her win. His pile of coins grew and grew while Camille’s flattened to nothing. She kept on betting, determined to win it back. After a devastating loss, in which she’d wagered almost everything, she realized what a fool she’d been—she was no better than Alain.