next to him. As they spoke in whispers, St. Paul let the back of his hand accidentally brush against Madeleine’s thigh, and when he stood to confer with her about Émilie’s health, he placed his fingers lightly upon her shoulder.
Within a day Madeleine’s initial distrust of St. Paul evaporated. She was not accustomed to such attention and regard. Compared to the discreetly refined sensitivity of the count, Marcel’s gruff affection seemed coarse and common.
The grass in the garden was brown and crisp with frost. It crunched beneath St. Paul’s feet as he walked to a secluded corner to meet the widow Scarron. She was already there waiting for him, her black garments stark against the crisp landscape. She stood with her back to him and spoke still facing away.
“What, I wonder, could possibly necessitate such uncomfortable secrecy?” She turned and extended her hand to St. Paul, who took it and bowed over it, not even touching it with his lips.
“I have news that will warm you,” he said rubbing his own gloved hands together.
“Speak.”
“Let me first ask you, what is the king’s greatest passion?”
“Monsieur de St. Paul, it is too cold to play games.” Madame de Maintenon turned away and prepared to leave him.
“This game, as you call it, could be the answer to our prayers.”
“Are you a devout man, St. Paul?”
“As devout as most,” he answered.
“Which is to say, not at all. Pray then, do not make light of the sacred practices of our Holy Church.”
St. Paul prepared to speak, then thought better of it.
“You had better state your business.”
“Very well.” The count took a step or two closer to Madame de Maintenon. “I shall answer my own question. The king’s passion is music. What if I were to say—I mean, I must tell you that I have found a voice in a million, a true novelty, a voice—”
“Is she pretty?” interrupted Madame de Maintenon.
St. Paul thought for a moment before answering. “She is only a child.”
The widow Scarron looked at him. “Ah,” she said. “I think you had better tell me more.”
St. Paul stretched out on the narrow bed in his tiny apartment at Versailles. His boots were filthy, but he was too tired to take them off.
“Jacques!” he yelled. But no one came. “My head!” St. Paul groaned aloud to the empty room. It was very quiet, but he could hear distant voices, perhaps in the kitchens on the floor below.
He was hungry. At the moment, unless he managed to arrive at his godmother’s in time for lunch or dinner, or happened to be in attendance upon the widow Scarron at a mealtime, he was unlikely to get much of anything to eat. His uncle was abroad and had closed up the Paris house to save money, and St. Paul had gone through everything he had. Short of selling his clothes, his personal effects, his carriage, or his horses, he had no means of getting cash. Mademoiselle de Guise had given him twenty silver écus the night of her soirée, but he had used them up paying the court physicians and buying little presents to curry favor with the girl’s mother. It was a gamble, but this time, St. Paul thought, it would all pay off. He had nothing more to lose; half the moneylenders in Paris were hounding him. If something did not go right soon, he might have to flee to England. It was annoying, to be born with a title and position and have a father who was so fond of gaming that he wagered his son’s inheritance. When he sobered up and realized what he’d done, the old count had jumped off a bridge into the Seine.
St. Paul was only eight years old at the time. For the next ten years, the boy and his mother lived with her brother, a prosperous banker in Paris by the name of Goncourt. But when his sister died and left him to find a career for her then eighteen-year-old son, the banker had the effrontery to suggest that the young gentleman might be useful in his business. More than that, he utterly refused to give him any money
Within a day Madeleine’s initial distrust of St. Paul evaporated. She was not accustomed to such attention and regard. Compared to the discreetly refined sensitivity of the count, Marcel’s gruff affection seemed coarse and common.
The grass in the garden was brown and crisp with frost. It crunched beneath St. Paul’s feet as he walked to a secluded corner to meet the widow Scarron. She was already there waiting for him, her black garments stark against the crisp landscape. She stood with her back to him and spoke still facing away.
“What, I wonder, could possibly necessitate such uncomfortable secrecy?” She turned and extended her hand to St. Paul, who took it and bowed over it, not even touching it with his lips.
“I have news that will warm you,” he said rubbing his own gloved hands together.
“Speak.”
“Let me first ask you, what is the king’s greatest passion?”
“Monsieur de St. Paul, it is too cold to play games.” Madame de Maintenon turned away and prepared to leave him.
“This game, as you call it, could be the answer to our prayers.”
“Are you a devout man, St. Paul?”
“As devout as most,” he answered.
“Which is to say, not at all. Pray then, do not make light of the sacred practices of our Holy Church.”
St. Paul prepared to speak, then thought better of it.
“You had better state your business.”
“Very well.” The count took a step or two closer to Madame de Maintenon. “I shall answer my own question. The king’s passion is music. What if I were to say—I mean, I must tell you that I have found a voice in a million, a true novelty, a voice—”
“Is she pretty?” interrupted Madame de Maintenon.
St. Paul thought for a moment before answering. “She is only a child.”
The widow Scarron looked at him. “Ah,” she said. “I think you had better tell me more.”
St. Paul stretched out on the narrow bed in his tiny apartment at Versailles. His boots were filthy, but he was too tired to take them off.
“Jacques!” he yelled. But no one came. “My head!” St. Paul groaned aloud to the empty room. It was very quiet, but he could hear distant voices, perhaps in the kitchens on the floor below.
He was hungry. At the moment, unless he managed to arrive at his godmother’s in time for lunch or dinner, or happened to be in attendance upon the widow Scarron at a mealtime, he was unlikely to get much of anything to eat. His uncle was abroad and had closed up the Paris house to save money, and St. Paul had gone through everything he had. Short of selling his clothes, his personal effects, his carriage, or his horses, he had no means of getting cash. Mademoiselle de Guise had given him twenty silver écus the night of her soirée, but he had used them up paying the court physicians and buying little presents to curry favor with the girl’s mother. It was a gamble, but this time, St. Paul thought, it would all pay off. He had nothing more to lose; half the moneylenders in Paris were hounding him. If something did not go right soon, he might have to flee to England. It was annoying, to be born with a title and position and have a father who was so fond of gaming that he wagered his son’s inheritance. When he sobered up and realized what he’d done, the old count had jumped off a bridge into the Seine.
St. Paul was only eight years old at the time. For the next ten years, the boy and his mother lived with her brother, a prosperous banker in Paris by the name of Goncourt. But when his sister died and left him to find a career for her then eighteen-year-old son, the banker had the effrontery to suggest that the young gentleman might be useful in his business. More than that, he utterly refused to give him any money
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