Enchantée(67)

Between herself and these aristocrats she’d built a fine wall in her mind: they might come this far only; she might walk to that border, but she would not wholly cross it nor dismantle it, brick by invisible brick. There was too much safety in it. Aristocrats had been the enemy for too long to let her guard down. Grandmère; the clients of Papa’s who turned on him and made him go bankrupt for his political views. The rich who stood on the backs of the poor and bent them to the ground.

Now an aristocrat stood inside her wall.

“My title is a suit that doesn’t fit,” Lazare said, quickly, but she couldn’t tell if his nonchalance was real or pretend. “Will you introduce me to your friend?”

“Isn’t she the loveliest? This is Cécile, the Baroness de la Fontaine.”

“Enchanté,” Lazare said, bowing again.

Camille flushed as she curtsied.

“She’s recently come to court,” Aurélie went on. “Her husband’s dead.”

“Aurélie, what are you saying?” Lazare said, as if offended on Camille’s behalf.

“She doesn’t care. Husbands aren’t any good unless they’re gone—which you would know, Lazare, if you were required to have one.”

His face clouded. “My apologies.”

“Not at all,” Camille said, using her best imitation of Aurélie to cover the confusion she felt. “But I wonder if it’s not time for me to go.” She counterfeited a pretty yawn. “It’s almost morning and I’ve a long ride back to Paris.”

“But you mustn’t, not yet—”

A shout cut Aurélie off.

Out of the hedges on the other side of the fountain, Chandon emerged, followed closely by Séguin. As they came closer, Camille saw that Chandon was injured, a livid scratch across his cheek.

“You’re hurt!” she cried.

“It was Séguin who did it,” Chandon snapped. “He forgets himself and behaves like the ruffian he is.”

“Blame it on me, of course,” the vicomte said silkily. His face wore its usual sneer. “It was the way you were scrambling through the shrubbery.”

Angry color flared in Chandon’s cheeks. “I was hurt trying to get away from you.”

“You’re bleeding.” Séguin stepped close to Chandon as he dug in his pocket for a handkerchief.

Chandon flung off Séguin’s hand. “Leave me!”

“I only wish to help. What ails you?” he said, his voice mocking.

In answer, Chandon drew his sword with a hiss of steel.

Instantly, as if he were Chandon’s mirror-image, Séguin drew his own weapon. In the moonlight, its blade gleamed, a cold smile. A line of energy sprang up between the two sword-points, racing up the boys’ arms to their shoulders, necks, and their tense, terrifying faces.

The line crackled with heat.

Desperate for them to cease, for there to be no more fighting, no one hurt, Camille cried out, “Stop it! Please don’t—”

“I told you to stay away from me,” Chandon growled. Blade up, he circled closer.

“You forget yourself,” Séguin hissed, the tip of his sword leveled at Chandon’s throat. “You cannot tell me what to do.”

At the malice in his voice, Camille’s dress stiffened, uneasy.

“No?” Chandon laughed grimly. “You think you have so much power? I outrank you in every way possible, Vicomte.”

“Hardly,” Séguin snapped. “Rank means nothing when you are—”

“Enough!” Aurélie dashed between them and held her hands up, her palms only inches from their swords’ points. Her chest rose and fell. “What will you do? Fight until first blood, when one of you is cut open? Then call for the court surgeon to come and sew you up? Or will your honor only be satisfied with death? The king forbids dueling and will throw you in prison, titles or not,” she stormed. “Besides, you’re behaving like idiots.”

The tip of Chandon’s sword wobbled.

“Don’t have what it takes, Chandon?” Séguin sneered.

“You know it’s not that.” Under his breath, he spat: “Cheater.”

“What did you say?”

“Come away, Aurélie.” Guilleux’s throat worked. “And both of you, put down your swords. You’re frightening the ladies with your foolishness.”

Drawn by the shouting, Foudriard had emerged from his hiding place and come to stand by Chandon. He said something to him, but Chandon shook his head, coughing. “Tell him to keep his hands off me,” he said.

Séguin laughed. “Most people want my hands on them, but, as you wish.” Sheathing his sword, he strode away.

Chandon and Séguin had nearly dueled over a scratch. Camille had thought duels were fought for love, or honor—not something as trivial as that. Unless it wasn’t trivial? Perhaps there was bad blood between them. Some old grudge?

“Are you cold, madame? Take my coat,” Lazare said, shrugging out of it. “Please.” He must have seen something in her face, because he added, quietly so only she might hear, “You’re Chandon’s friend, non? Don’t worry about him. He and I played at duels when we first came to court, as children. For all his wit, he has a quick temper. But rest assured, in dueling, no one’s his equal.”