Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [17]
Then Lymond walked up the stairs from the street and Danny, following behind, saw Madame’s eyes rest on the Persian coat, and the size and quite matchless splendour of his lordship’s jewels and lastly, on his face, which was as urbane as her own. And to himself: Blessed shall ye be when men shall hate you, said Danny Hislop; and delighted, settled to witness a conflict.
It did not come. It appeared that, if driven to it, M. de Sevigny could conduct and sustain a soothing conversation which comprised not only an exchange of news but also some skilful anecdotes and even, entrancingly, a little fresh scandal now and then.
Madame la Maréchale, listening, allowed her defences to dwindle. After dinner she dismissed her women, her clerk and her chaplain, and appeared prepared to sit alone in her visitors’ company without digging trenches beforehand. The names of Condé and d’Enghien and the Vidame of Chartres which had appeared with mysterious frequency in her previous discourse tended to disappear, to the disappointment of Danny, who was hoping for further details of his commander’s disgusting past.
Of his peccadilloes in Russia, Danny had made a complete study in person. But even Adam had not been with Lymond during that stay six years since at the French court. Rumour agreed on some aspects: that he had been drunk most of the time; that he had performed some service for the Crown and had been taken up by the courtiers as a result.
Adam had reminded him that the French court was notorious for licence, and had hinted that Lymond’s offences in Madame la Maréchale’s eyes were partly to do with her husband. Her husband, Danny gathered, had not been offended: rather the contrary. The same appeared to be true of Messrs the Vidame, the Marquis d’Enghien and the Prince of Condé.
Added to what Danny knew for a certainty of Lymond’s more orthodox conquests, it made an impressive tally. He stared into space, his nose in a handkerchief, thinking of a Tartar girl he had promised himself to stop thinking of.
Marguerite de St André had forgotten he was there at ail. The golden-haired commander whose drunken wildness had once so attracted Jacques had learned manners. He was quite charming and also, clearly, of inordinate wealth. She smiled at him: the particular smile, for the first time, that made the most of her eyes and hid her bad teeth and said, ‘And when is your next deputation? In half an hour? I cannot believe that, sitting here, you are conducting our defence against invading armies.’
‘You will believe it when the couriers start arriving,’ said Lymond pleasantly and stood up. ‘All my orders were given before I came here. Then, when your leading burghers have had a chance to confer, I hope they will look for military guidance to Mr Hislop.…’
He made a small, unexpected turn towards Danny who sat up, radiating alertness.
‘… whose nature, unlike the mastiff, is to be tenderly nosed,’ Lymond finished. A little fan had been shaken from table to floor by his movement. The Governor’s wife saw his eyes become aware of it. He paused, and then sinking to one knee collected it between his ringed hands and rose, with infinite slowness, admiring it. Then he looked up and smiled at the Maréchale.
His eyes were a brilliant blue; the disliked chameleon face illuminated with sweetness and warmth and vivid intelligence. His hands, enclosing the fan, were classical in their purity. The Maréchale returned the look, her lips parting.
Lymond said, ‘I wish it were not so, but I fear my deputation is arriving.’
She had hoped that the confusion of sound in the street had escaped his attention. Carrying his eyes with her she rose, and passing Danny Hislop walked to the window, where she unlatched and drew inwards one