Enchantée(84)

“Isn’t the opera based on a play? I think my father saw it.” Camille remembered how much he’d liked it, especially the speech Figaro the servant makes to his master, the count, about how nobles were born into everything they had, while servants had to use their wits to survive. Sophie had asked, Are we noblemen or servants? And Papa had answered, We are neither. We are citizens.

“Lucky him! That play was a scandale,” Aurélie said in a stage whisper as a grand duchess passed them in a froth of yellow silk. Aurélie’s head followed her for a moment before snapping back to Camille. “Did you see her? In the daffodil-colored gown? Talk about scandal! Her husband and her lover dueled over her—and the duchess was ecstatic when her husband won! Who ever heard of such a thing?”

Camille tried to smile.

“I wish you’d tell me what’s troubling you.” Aurélie missed nothing. “You’ve been so strange lately.”

“It’s nothing, ma chèrie,” Camille said. “Séguin won’t be here, will he?”

Aurélie raised her dark brows. “He hasn’t been bothering you?”

Camille nodded to the Comte d’Astignac and his party as they passed them on the landing. She dropped her voice. “In a way.”

Aurélie stopped dead. “He hasn’t proposed?”

“Not really—he never said the words.” Camille bit the edge of her nail. “He said everything but.”

“Oh là là, when did this happen?”

“When we were playing paille maille and I went to find my ball.”

“Did you give him any hope?”

Camille shook her head. “It was strange—I was so frightened. How can one be afraid of someone about to propose?”

Aurélie squeezed Camille’s hand. “You were right to be careful. He’s ridiculously proud and treats a refusal like an unscrubbable stain on his honor. I don’t know what it is with these boys. Probably something they get from their fathers. In any case,” she went on, as they reached the top of the stairs, “you were right to tell me. I’ll keep Séguin away as much as I can.”

It was his magic that unsettled her most, and even Aurélie couldn’t help with that. “Will the Baron de Guilleux be here tonight?”

“I hope so,” Aurélie said with a smirk. “Is there anyone you’re hoping to see?”

She was as relentless as Sophie. “Let’s find the box.”

There were many people Aurélie had to greet and the orchestra was already playing the overture when they found it. Over the door hung a crimson curtain that Aurélie lifted with her fan as she went in, beckoning Camille to follow. The little room that opened out to the stage was like a jewel box, the seats plush, a small candelabra illuminating the walls.

“Oh, look who’s already here,” said Aurélie as they swept in. With a clanking of swords and bumping of shoulders, Chandon and Foudriard stood up. Both were all smiles, but Chandon was pale, as if he’d been up for days.

“Lovely to see you both,” Aurélie said. “Where’s Guilleux?”

“He sends his regrets, mon étoile,” Chandon said. “Something with his frigate and a storm at sea?”

Aurélie made an impatient sound as she dropped into a chair. “Not only do I have to manage it so that my husband doesn’t come to court but also, apparently, I must manage the weather. Sit with me, Cécile?”

Camille tucked herself into a spot between Aurélie and Chandon. Chandon kissed her on the cheek and squeezed her hand. His skin was dry, and feverishly hot.

Aurélie shook out her fan. “How warm it is! Such a crush!” Beyond the box’s ledge, the theater was filling up: a mix of nobles, wealthy Parisians, commoners standing on the floor. The place thrummed with excitement. “All because the opera’s in French, I suppose.”

“French?” Chandon groaned. “It’s in Italian. Despite your pretty face, you really are a barbarian. Did you never have a handsome Italian music master?”

“I suppose you did?” Aurélie cracked her fan on his arm in mock in dignation. “Maman would never have let a handsome Italian enter the house! Besides, who needs to know what they’re saying? It’s all about the feelings, n’est-ce pas?”

“Hush, you loudmouths,” said Foudriard over the last notes of the overture. “It’s starting.”

All around them, people quieted. Beyond the constellation of blazing chandeliers, the curtain slowly swayed open to reveal a half-furnished room. The servant Figaro was kneeling on the floor, measuring stick in his hand, while his fiancée, Susanna, arranged her wedding bonnet.

Camille shifted closer to Chandon. “How are you?”

He smiled wanly and batted his eyelashes. “In love, as always.”

“Not that. Are you any better? You still look so—”

“Awful? Don’t I know it. No longer can you call me the dashing Marquis de Chandon.”

“This is serious! Aurélie said she’d send her physician to you. Why not see what he says?”

“No physician can help me, my sweet. I’m too far gone.” He put his mouth next to her ear. “It’s too much magic.”