Enchantée(86)

“I must get some air,” she said.

“What are you thinking?” Aurélie asked, astonished. “The best part of the opera is yet to come, and Lazare’s on his way to see us.”

But Camille couldn’t face him again. To see him and not be able to truly speak to him—to know what he was thinking—it was too much. She recalled the frank stare he’d given her on the lawn at Versailles, and how she’d almost given herself away. “Forgive me, I cannot stay.”

“But Cécile! Are you ill?”

If not ill, very close to it, Camille thought as she pushed through the chairs to the curtain at the back of the box. She was halfway there when the velvet panels parted.





43


“I hope I’m not intruding, mesdames,” Lazare said, coming into the box and nearly bumping into Camille. He grasped her hand to steady her, but it did nothing of the kind. She had completely lost her bearings and all she could think was, He is holding my hand.

“Not at all,” Camille managed to say.

Below, the orchestra tuned their violins.

“Intrusions such as yours are most welcome.” Aurélie fluttered her eyelashes at him. “I know Cécile was hoping to see you again.”

Camille glared at her. Of course it was true, but why did she have to say it? Was it so obvious?

“You were?” Lazare faltered. “Even though you would not let me fetch your ball in paille maille?”

She took a deep breath and felt the answering embrace of the dress, steadying her. However he behaved, whatever he did, she must continue to play the game. Court manners, she reminded herself. Court guile. “You’ve recovered from your trouncing, I see.”

“Have I?” he teased. “We’ll have to play again. Double the penalties.”

“Enough, mes amis!” laughed Aurélie as she patted the empty place next to her. “Come, Lazare, sit by me. Chandon and Foudriard will be thrilled to see you. You know Chandon fears one day you will fly away and never return.”

“In my balloon? Not without the rest of you.” He hesitated, his hand on the back of the chair. “But that’s the baroness’s spot, isn’t it?”

Camille froze. Sit next to him? For the remainder of the opera? “I was just leaving.”

“You are always going,” Lazare observed.

“Nonsense,” Aurélie said. “You sit here, and Cécile will sit on your other side.”

After the chandeliers rose and the curtain swung away to reveal Count Almaviva considering the charges brought against Figaro, Chandon slunk in. Foudriard was gone; instead the Vicomte de Séguin—her breath caught—followed Chandon into the box. It was clear that Chandon was trying to get away from him. His face was flushed, his eyes red. Séguin wouldn’t have hurt Chandon, would he? Here, at the opera?

But her own experience whispered that it was not at all unlikely.

Séguin took the last seat in the box, behind Camille. He sat so near, she could smell his heavy cologne, and under it, the drifting smell of ash. She resented that he was here, suspicious of her secrets. Closing her in.

Next to her, Lazare stretched his long legs out in front of him, his elbow propped carelessly on the arm of his chair. The candles’ glow caught on the edges of his cheekbones and the curve of his mouth, outlining them in gold. The air between her and Lazare felt like a living thing whose every curve and indentation she was aware of.

As if spellbound by the performance, he faced the stage. But when she resumed watching the actors, she felt the heat of his gaze on the side of her face, as charged as a touch.

He was looking at her.

On the stage below, a long recitative punctuated the drama. Camille had lost track of the story; the poor countess, whose husband no longer loved her, was terribly upset. Chandon now sat in front of her, too far away to ask. The countess approached the front of the stage, handkerchief in her hand. As she began to sing, her face took the shape of anguish and pain. Chandon’s shoulders began to shake. Camille put a comforting hand on his back. “What is it, Chandon?”

He shook his head and waved her off. “It’s nothing, nothing. Just the music.”

What was the countess singing that was making Chandon so sad?

Turning to Lazare, she asked, “You speak Italian—what’s happening? What is she singing?”

“You know I speak Italian?” he said, surprised.

“Didn’t your tutor teach you Italian?”

He stared. “élouard?”

Merde! He must never speak of élouard to anyone at court, or he wouldn’t be so taken aback. Playing these roles, being two different people—she was losing track of what she knew and what she was supposed to not know, who knew what about her.

She pretended nonchalance. “Oh, that was his name?”

Lazare nodded slowly, his brows drawn together. Wondering. “You know him? I’ve mentioned him before?”

Camille clutched the arm of her chair as if it would keep her upright. “I assumed you had an Italian tutor, like everyone else.”

Only as Camille—not Cécile—had she heard him mention élouard. Only in confidence. She’d made another slip, this one more perilous than the last. If he did not know who Cécile was by now, he must at least suspect there was something more to the Baroness de la Fontaine than met the eye.