Both my father and mother realized that I was feeling the loss of Sophie’s company and they knew too that Lisette and I had been special friends; they tried in every way to help me over this depressing period which the loss of my young companions had brought me to; they took me to Paris, but somehow the delights of that city did not stir me out of my melancholy; they only served to remind me of it more vividly. In the streets I kept remembering that walk down the Champs-Elysees where the lamps were being hung; and I could not bear to go near the Place Louis XV.
There was a great deal of gaiety but I could not feel part of it. I listened to Court gossip, but it was immaterial to me whether Marie Antoinette received Madame du Barry or not. If the King was bewitched by this woman from the gutters of Paris—where some people said she came from—let him be. I did not care that the Barriens—the party round Madame du Barry—had succeeded in getting Minister Choiseul dismissed even though all this was of some importance to my father, who was deeply involved in Court intrigue. My mother used to be a little anxious about him because such activities could be dangerous. It was so easy to lose everything—one’s life as well as one’s estates. There were those dreaded
But all the intrigue and gaiety of Paris could not lift me out of my gloom … until Charles came.
He must have known we were in Paris. I wondered afterwards whether my mother told him so. She knew that I was attracted by him and he by me; she still lived in her idealist world and saw life not as it was but as she wanted it to be. I think it was her innocence which had so attracted my father. I would have been ready to swear that since he had married her he had been entirely faithful to her. She would accept this as the natural course of events and not realize how very powerful was the attraction she had for him. And that was, of course, part of her innocence.
I would never have such. Perhaps it was a pity. On the other hand, it might be better to know the truth and face life as it really was.
So while we were in Paris Charles came there. We rode in the Bois together. We walked during the days. Once we rode out of the city towards St Cloud and when we had left the town behind us we dismounted and tethered our horses and walked among the trees.
He said: ‘You know I’m in love with you, Lottie.’
‘What goes for love with you, perhaps.’
‘I thought we were becoming friends.’
‘We have seen each other fairly frequently.’
‘That is not what I meant. I thought there was an understanding between us.’
‘I think I understand
He stopped suddenly and caught me up in his arms. He kissed me … once … twice … and went on kissing me. I was bewildered, making an attempt to hold him off—but it was rather feeble.
‘Lottie, why won’t you be true to yourself?’ he asked.
I withdrew myself and cried: ‘True to myself? What does that mean?’
‘Admit you like me, that you want me in the same way as I want you.’
‘The last thing I should want is to be one of that multitude who have ministered to your desires … temporarily.’
‘You know that is not what I want. I want you permanently.’
‘Indeed?’
‘I want marriage.’
‘Marriage. But you are betrothed to Sophie.’
‘No longer. She has rejected me … irrevocably. Those were her words.’
‘And so now you would turn to me?’
‘I turned to you the moment I saw you.’
‘I remember. You were looking for a victim at Madame Rougemont’s.’
‘Didn’t I rescue you? Didn’t I look after you? I protected you from the wrath of your family. I have always sought to please you. I was betrothed to Sophie before I met you. You know how these marriages are arranged. But why shouldn’t there be one which is a love-match, and why shouldn’t that be ours?’
I felt my heart leap with excitement. I could not curb my exultation. Escape from the gloomy château with its memories. Sophie in her turret, Lisette gone. One day so like another … and my inability to rouse myself from my lethargy and depression.
I struggled to suppress my elation.
I said: ‘There is Sophie.’
‘It is accepted now that she will never marry. It would not surprise me if she made up her mind to enter a convent. The life would suit her. But that does not mean that I must remain unmarried all my life. I have spoken to your father.’
I stared at him.
‘Don’t look alarmed,’ he said. ‘I have had a very encouraging answer. Your mother is anxious that you shall not be forced to do anything you do not wish. But the glorious truth is that I have your father’s permission to lay my heart at your feet.’
I laughed at the expression and he laughed too. He had a ready wit and he was well aware—how could he be otherwise?—that I knew the sort of life he had led. Our first meeting had been indicative of that.
