Enchantée(47)

There was no end of difficulties in her life, but none that she would tell this aristocrat. Mentioning death had thrown the others last time, so she played that card again. She dared him to say something about that. “The death of my husband, perhaps?”

“Peut-être,” he said, though he did not sound convinced. “Maybe. Now this line, which curves up to your fingers—that’s your love line.”

“What do you see for me there, vicomte? Another husband?”

He gave her a quizzical stare. “Oui. The Line of Love shows you cannot be alone for long. But the Line of Fate presents more problems.” He ran the tip of his index finger down the center of her palm. There was something about his touch that burned. “Most people have only one Line of Fate, madame. But see here, you have two: you and your shadow life. One path is thin, but whole. The other is broken. It is crossed with a triangle, and a star.” He touched the crisscrossing lines in the center of her palm.

Either he was good at invention, or there was something to this palm-reading. “What do they mean?”

“Secret knowledge. Or a warning.”

“A warning not to wear rouge if I visit the queen’s rooms?” she said, lightly. “To not be alone with the Comte d’Astignac of the Roving Hands?”

Séguin reclined in his chair. Again, she smelled his heavy cologne, and something else—something familiar Camille couldn’t place. “Bah, the Comte d’Astignac has nothing on you. It’s fate that interests me. Isn’t it reassuring to know it’s written in your hands?”

Under the table, out of sight, Camille wiped her palm on her skirts. “I don’t believe in fate, monsieur.”

“What else is there?”

“Freedom, perhaps? Choice?”

Séguin’s bold stare faltered for a moment. “Freedom is chaos, non? I don’t like disorder.”

Disorder is the beginning of change, Papa had said. When taxes rise, when the harvest fails, and bread prices rise: see what happens.

“Slap me, marquis!” Lord Willsingham cried in his atrocious French. “One more card and damn me, I’ll make twenty-one.”

Everyone roared with laughter; across the table, Chandon was snapping his fingers at her. “Madame de la Fontaine,” he said, his voice brisk, “attention, s’il vous pla?t! Would you like another card?”

All the players waited, expectant. But Camille had lost her bearings completely. She could only stare back. She touched her fingertips to her cards, trying hard to read their hidden faces. Nothing came to her.

“I don’t know,” she said, haltingly. Had she successfully turned the card before Séguin had interrupted her? Startled, she realized she couldn’t remember. And if she had, which card had she turned? What had been her plan?

“Perhaps not,” she said, biting the edge of her fingernail.

“Come on, madame,” cried Chandon, “live a little!” As he stretched across the table with a card for her, drunk Lord Willsingham assumed it was for him and reached for it. Doing so, he upset a glass of red wine, which spilled wide across the green baize, the playing cards, and into Camille’s lap.





24


In a moment, Chandon was at her side, pulling out her chair, helping her up. Under her elbow, his hand was like iron. As if he were forcing her to leave. With a deft movement, he picked up her purse and chips and guided her away, his arm now around her shoulders. Her skirts caught on a chair and tumbled it to the floor, but he would not let her stop to right it.

“What are you doing?” Camille seethed.

“Saving you,” Chandon hissed in her ear. Then loudly, so everyone could hear, he added, “Come, madame. I’ll find you a maid to blot your dress. Red wine makes such an unfortunate stain.” Obediently, the crowd parted as Chandon led her out of the cream-and-gilt room, down a servants’ stair, to a seemingly unused hall, where a frowning portrait of the old king hung crooked in its frame.

“How exactly are you saving me?” As she stood there with the magician, a finger of fear crept up her spine. “What do you want from me?”

“Isn’t it clear? We must talk.” He glanced down the empty hallway. “We haven’t much time.”

“Why drag me out of the game? Unfair, monsieur—I was sure to finish big.”

Out of nowhere, he produced her purse and handed it to her. “And here I thought you were enthralled by the Vicomte de Séguin,” Chandon challenged. “You’re not worried about the wine that spilled on your lovely dress?”

But the plum-colored skirts of her gown were once again spotless. The crimson stain had vanished.

“Your dress is very thirsty, madame,” he observed.

“There must not have been much wine, after all—”

“Or your dress is fashioned from magie bibelot, n’est-ce pas?”

Camille froze. “Magie bibelot?” she said, doing her best to feign ignorance.

“The magic of enchanted objects,” he said. “And I bet you’re working a glamoire. People rarely look as dazzlingly perfect as you do.”

“And what of it? You’re a magician, too,” she dared. “I saw you manipulating the cards. Is your plan to expose me?”

“What? Never!” Chandon said, alarmed. “What is there to expose? All the world comes to Versailles, hoping to be someone else. Who really cares if you’re not noble? Or a widow?” He blinked, as if he could peer beneath the glamoire’s polish. “You were never even married?”