Enchantée(36)

She hardly dared breathe: there was the whole rent in her hand.

“Next time, come to the Petit Trianon, won’t you? We need more people like you there,” Chandon said. “We play on Thursdays.”

“Oh?” She had no idea what the Petit Trianon was. Or what he meant by people like you.

“That’s where the queen hides from old age and etiquette, bad press and debts, people who beg her for help.” Chandon examined his nails. “I suppose she deserves it. After the dauphin died.”

Camille had never thought of the queen like that, as a person who needed to escape—but all the gold louis in the world hadn’t saved the queen’s son.

“Still,” Chandon went on, speaking faster as the others ambled away, “she’s lonely at the Petit Trianon without anyone to flatter her, play music or cards. That’s why pretty young things such as ourselves get invited. It’s a select group, I might add. We’re all terribly louche.” A square, pink card appeared as if by magic in his hand. “This will get you in. And I can promise you money and strawberries.”

Money and strawberries—and a bright, new chance to make up this loss. Those gold louis on the table, the jewelry and shiny trinkets in a pile—it’d only take a handful of Thursdays before she had all the money she and Sophie would need. To eat until their bellies were full. To move to another place. To be safe.

She reached out and took the card. “Merci.”

“It’s nothing,” Chandon said with a quick bow. He walked away, sword swinging from its sash. “You’ll have to practice, madame, if you wish to beat me!”

She had been so close. Playing at the Palais-Royal, and with Sophie, it had seemed so easy to use la magie to turn cards, but this was a new lesson: there was no guarantee.

Hanging back in the shadows, pressing her skirts to the wall, she watched the aristocrats saunter away: Foudriard with his arm slung over Chandon’s shoulders; Aurélie with her right hand tucked into the crook of Chandon’s arm, Séguin one step behind. Chandon made a joke and Aurélie giggled into his shoulder.

They made a pretty group, a gaggle of young nobles straight from a Fragonard painting. They were figures in a most foreign world, so unfamiliar to her it might as well be China. It had its own rules and prejudices and was filled with so many, many things they took for granted—things she’d only dimly glimpsed today. She could play, yes, and cheat, but she needed to know the rules of the game. She couldn’t afford to make any more foolish mistakes. And the thought of beating them? Their pretty mouths falling open, cards sliding from their soft hands? The knowledge that this time, it would be their pockets that were empty? She could almost taste how sweet it would be.

She tucked the pink card into her sleeve. Soon.

Her dress looked as if someone had spilled bronze ink all over it. There was no time to waste.

She picked up her skirts and ran.





19


Down avenues of parquet, under jangling chandeliers, past innumerable marble rooms, Camille ran. She raced past white-faced statues and portraits of men on horseback and more mirrors than she had ever seen in her life.

In each one, she couldn’t help but look.

Invisible hands were erasing the glamoire. Stubborn freckles rose up through the white on her cheeks, red hair seethed through the powder’s film, the bruise purpled again. Her hairpins would no longer hold and her locks tumbled down around her shoulders. Her stormy-sky dress had completely faded to worn gold, its trims flapping loose. And each time she caught her reflection, the more the hungry hollows gaped under her cheekbones and around her throat. The bruise made her re member how Lazare had startled when he’d seen it. It wasn’t just the dress and her hair—she needed to get away before anyone else could see her face.

The halls were empty of day-visitors; somewhere, far off, she heard the click of heels and laughter, someone shouting, “To the fountains!” From an upstairs room, a blurry snatch of music. Camille fled down a narrow stair and surprised a servant carrying a laundry basket. Through a window she glimpsed the pale rectangular shapes of the parterres and then—with a relief so profound she wanted to cry—she came to a door that opened to the outside. The footman who should have been waiting to open it slumped against the wall, snoring.

She let herself out into the cool evening. She paced through the shadowy gardens, through the park, and out to the Cour d’Honneur where the coachman would be waiting.

Except he wasn’t.

There was no sign of him or his flea-bitten gray.

After scouring the courtyard, swearing under her breath, Camille pulled off her shoes and started to walk. The summer sky was growing dark, and it was hard to see what lay ahead of her on the road. Leaping aside to avoid a speeding cabriolet, she’d nearly stepped on a dead cat. She hoped that one of the fancy coaches driving past her on the avenue might take pity and stop, but none did. Not only had she lost the snuffbox, but she had also lost the illusion that she was anything more than a starving girl in a ruined gown who’d foolishly thrown away her prize.

Bone-weary and miserable, she’d walked for nearly an hour on the road to Paris when a cart, drawn by a draft horse, drew up alongside her. The horse’s legs were muddy to the knees, the back of the wagon stacked with sacks of grain. The farmer held up his lantern and tipped his hat to Camille. His face was kind. “It’s late to be out walking, mademoiselle. I’ve got daughters no older than you. Where might you be going, ma fille?”