Jane Feather: The Diamond Slipper

She began to undress with feverish haste, her fingers, slippery with sweat, fumbling with the hooks and buttons.

Elsie hurried in. "Oh, madame, I knew you shouldn't have got up," she said, wringing her hands. "You're not well enough. Shall I fetch the physician?"

"No, just help me back into bed."

In five minutes Cordelia was lying back against the pillows, praying her heart would slow its painful, nauseating banging against her ribs. She was exhausted, still conscious of the steady flow of blood from her body. But mercifully, it didn't seem to have worsened despite all the standing and running.

The door to the salon banged shut, and Michael's voice, harsh, savage, rent the waiting quiet. "Brion, pack a valise and send Frederick with it to the Coq d'Or in town. He's to await me there. At once, man! Don't stand there looking at me like a half-wit."

Cordelia held her breath, waiting. Then the door burst open and Michael strode in. "Get out!" He jerked a hand at Elsie, who, with a frightened gasp, curtsied and ran from the room.

Michael came over to the bed. His face was white, with a whiter shade around his drawn mouth. He looked at her, through her, with his cold pale eyes. "What do you know of this, whore?" His voice was surprisingly soft.

Cordelia said nothing. She turned her head away.

With a foul oath, he bent over her, wrenching her face back toward him. "Did you plot this with him? How did he know about the journals?"

His fingers squeezed her chin and it was all she could do not to cry out. But she was determined she would not show him her fear. "I don't know what you're talking about, my lord. I have been abed. You made certain of that."

"You can't fool me with your deceitful tongue," he spat, bringing his face very close to hers, so that she could smell the sourness of his breath, the muskiness of his skin. "I will kill your damned lover, and then, by God, whore, you will never escape me until I decide it's time for you to meet your death. Do you understand me!" His mouth was almost touching hers now in a vile simulation of a kiss. "Do you understand?" His spittle showered her face.

"I understand you," she managed to say through the waves of disgust. "And you understand, husband, that you will never break me. I will die first."

He laughed and abruptly released her chin. "I've broken you already, my dear wife. Don't you realize it?" He stood up. "You and my daughters will journey immediately to Paris. You will await me in the rue du Bac. When I have killed your lover, I will come to you."

Cordelia pulled herself up against the pillows. She wiped her face with a corner of the sheet. "And just how do you plan to kill him, my lord?"

He stared at her with an arrested expression. "You don't know?"

"How should I, my lord?" She met his stare calmly and had the satisfaction of seeing uncertainty scudding across his countenance.

"At sunrise tomorrow I will spit him on the end of my rapier," Michael articulated slowly. "I'm sorry you won't be there to see it, my dear, but I want you safely put away. Thanks to your damnable lover, we will be persona non grata at court after the duel until the king is prepared to forget this distasteful disruption." Michael's lip curled as he mimicked the king's austere euphemism for the duel unto death that would take place in his presence. "The dauphine will offer you no protection now, madame."

He waited to see if she would react, but she remained still, regarding him almost indifferently until his uncertainty grew. Then he spun on his heel and left by way of her dressing room.

Cordelia wouldn't have believed it possible to feel such hatred for a fellow human being. But Michael did not fall into that category, she thought. He was a devil, a monster from the pits of hell. And he would return to the fires that had given him birth. Leo would pitchfork him right back into the inferno. She would not allow herself to consider the alternative. She had to plan. She had to prevent Michael from sending her back to Paris. She had to stay here. She had to be here when it happened. And the children. They must be taken to safety tonight. Mathilde would have to go with them because she couldn't go herself. Not now.

She was running through her plans when Elsie returned, her eyes reverently fixed to the letter reposing on a silver salver. The wax bore the dauphine's seal. "A messenger brought this from Her Highness, madame." She proffered the salver, too awed to touch the august paper herself.

Cordelia took it and slit the wafer. The message was short and she knew that Toinette had written it at dictation. Presumably by the Noailles: Dear Princess von Sachsen, I very much regret that I will be unable to receive you until His Majesty permits. Maria Antonia.

Cordelia nibbled her lip, gazing at the cold words that meant the official end of friendship. Then she saw that a corner of the paper had been folded over. She opened it. Dearest, I can't help it. But I will always love you. T.

Cordelia touched the message to her lips in a brief, symbolic farewell. When this was over, she would find a way to 'correspond with Toinette. There were always unofficial channels.

Elsie still stood by the bed, wide-eyed with the momentousness of events. Her gaze was filled with sympathy for her poor mistress. To lose a pregnancy and then face the prospect of being widowed in the morning. It was a dreadful thing. "Everyone says what a magnificent swordsman the prince is, madame," she offered in misguided reassurance. "They say he's never been defeated in a duel before and he always fights to the death. He killed ten men in ten months once… although he was a lot younger then."

That presumably explained Michael's confidence, Cordelia thought bitterly. How many duels had Leo fought? How many men had he killed?

"Bring me some tea, please, Elsie." She had to get rid of the girl with her inarticulate sympathy and hand-wringing before she burst into tears.

Monsieur Brion was her next visitor. He stood awkwardly in the doorway of the chamber. "The prince has instructed me to escort yourself and Mesdames Sylvie and Amelia back to Paris immediately, madame. Would you be good enough to instruct your maid to help you rise?"

"Monsieur Brion, I am not returning to Paris tonight," Cordelia declared. "And neither are the children."

"But, madame!" He looked astounded.

"You will not suffer, I promise you," she said. "If the prince survives this duel, then I will give you sufficient funds to free you from his service." She pushed aside the covers and rose somewhat shakily to her feet. She went to the dresser and opened her jewel casket. "Here. Payment in advance, monsieur." She held out to him a sapphire ring. "You will know how to sell it?"

Brion nodded, slowly taking the ring. He had contacts in Paris who would give him a good price and ask no questions. He could get enough for the bauble to set himself up in a snug inn in the little village in Cognac, where he'd grown up. He'd be set for life.

"What would you have me do, madame?"

"Simply inform the prince that all is in order for our departure. Have the coachman drive through the town. Make sure that the coach is seen to leave, make sure that you are seen to leave with it. Oh, and you'd better take Madame de Nevry," she said in afterthought. "Tell her that on the prince's orders you're fetching the children from their music lesson and taking them with her to Paris. When you drive through the town, if possible, drive past the inn where the prince is staying, but too fast for him to hail you. Whether you choose to go on to Paris with the governess, to return, or to get off somewhere else, is your business and I shall not inquire." She sank into an armchair, weakened by the effort to gain this vital support.

"Very well, madame." Brion bowed low. "And may I say it's been a pleasure to serve you."