‘Your daughter,’ I repeated, softly. I had to look away. ‘Is she…?’
‘In Ligny, with her nursemaid. I’m told she thrives. Two years old last month. Pretty little thing, last time I saw her.’
‘Two. So—’ I calculated rapidly in my head – ‘she was born in November of ’83?’
‘That’s right.’ It seemed she meant to say more, but she fell into silence.
‘Then…?’ I turned back to her. The question seemed to catch in my throat.
She hesitated for the space of a breath, and laid a hand on my arm. ‘No, Bruno.’
‘But – we were together in the January. Could it not be—’
‘The dates do not match.’ She did not meet my eye, though her hand still rested lightly on my sleeve.
‘It is possible to miscount the dates. Or so I understand.’
‘You know nothing of these matters, Bruno.’ She spoke gently, but it felt like a rebuff. ‘I’m sorry. Besides,’ she added, sounding weary, ‘what difference would it make?’
‘It would make a difference to me,’ I said, with a vehemence that surprised me. I was aware that I had raised my voice. ‘Just to know.’
‘Really? Would it not rather be a kind of torment? She is the Count’s child now. You could never see her. Even if she were yours, I mean,’ she added quickly.
‘It will be more of a torment to be always wondering,’ I said. ‘To think there might be a sliver of doubt.’
‘Then take my word for it.’ She squeezed my arm before removing her hand to pull her cloak close around her throat. ‘There is no doubt.’ But still she would not meet my eye.
‘Is she dark or fair?’ I was not sure why I was persisting, as if I might press the truth out of her one way or another. Given the life she led at court, it was entirely possible that she could not say for certain who the child’s father might be; I was not so deceived as to think I had been the only one, but I imagined there might be some clue in the child’s looks as to which of her lovers was responsible.
‘She looks like me.’ She pressed her lips together again. It appeared the subject was closed, and I knew better than to go on forcing it; she would only walk away, and I still needed her help. We stood in silence for a while, watching the colours explode against the dark backcloth of the sky. She shivered, and I slipped an arm around her, rubbing her shoulder to keep her warm. She remained very still, neither quite a rejection nor a welcome of my touch. ‘I must go,’ she said, eventually, with – it seemed to me – a note of reluctance. ‘There is someone waiting for me inside.’
‘Your husband?’ I removed my arm.
‘God, no. No, the Count detests Paris – it’s one of his most appealing traits. He likes to stay on his own estates, devising ways to be more productive with agriculture.’ She made this sound like an outlandish fetish. ‘But I could meet you later,’ she said, dropping her voice. ‘Once I have fulfilled my obligations.’
‘I would like that,’ I heard myself say, though every shred of reason told me it would be the purest folly. Gabrielle was Catherine’s spy, had only ever been Catherine’s spy, whatever may have passed between us; there was no reason to suppose she regarded me now with anything other than professional detachment, and to make an assignation with her was most likely to be a trap. And yet the warmth of the drinks, the scent of her perfume, the slight pressure of her shoulder against my arm, together with the throbbing in my blood from the memory of the women dancing, all conspired to produce a more powerful effect than the promptings of reason. Perhaps I was no better than Henri when it came to resisting the stirrings of the flesh.
‘If you follow the left-hand path down from the terrace,’ she said, quietly, ‘and pass the fountain and the ornamental gardens, you come to a sort of wilderness beyond with a stretch of woodland. There’s a clearing there. Give me an hour.’
I nodded. I felt obscurely as if the power of choice had been stripped from me, and all I could do was to follow orders. ‘But I must ask you something before you go,’ I said, recovering my wits enough to remember why I had wanted to speak to her.
‘Be quick, then.’ She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered again. Her eyes behind the mask darted from one side of the crowd to the other, as if she were looking out for someone in particular, or afraid of being caught.
‘The girl who played Circe – what can you tell me about her?’
She stiffened. ‘Ah. You have your eye on her now, do you?’ Her voice sounded pinched. ‘I don’t suppose you can be blamed, after that display. But take my advice – keep well away. That one is not for you.’
‘That was not my meaning,’ I said, realising my lack of tact. ‘I am not interested in her for myself. I only want to know more about her.’
She turned to me, curiosity quickening in her eyes. ‘You cannot expect me to be satisfied with that.’ She ran her thumb across her lower lip; I could see her calculating. ‘So you want information about Circe. What will you trade me for it?’
‘Well – what do you usually trade for information?’
She laughed. ‘I don’t think my currency will work for you, Bruno. Here are my terms – when you meet me in the copse, I will tell you what you want to know about Circe,
