playact was gone. During the course of that day, the château had lost its familiar appearance, as, bit by bit, it was emptied of the characters who peopled it and was cut off from the rituals and routines that gave it life. True, it was no less impressive than before, but no longer as a miracle of luxury and refinement, nor as the grandiose spectacle that had captivated me from the first moment and of which I myself was a part—something I came to understand later, from the lightness of my body and the weightlessness of my footsteps. Now, the château was impressive as the empty shell left by a disastrous occurrence. Of course, we were making some attempt at caution. We hugged the walls. We took care not to bump into furniture, not to knock over vases or statues. We spoke in low voices, and then only to pass vital information. The map we had available was of the underground passages. Reaching the entrance to them did not, so it had seemed to us, pose much of a problem. This confidence was a little shaken by our first mistake, which took us into a dark corridor leading nowhere. But Monsieur de Vaudreuil was so quick to change direction that the mistake passed almost unnoticed. We were proceeding so tightly grouped, stepping so furtively, so hurriedly, that we were bound to awaken at least some distrust in anyone that chanced to be coming the other way. At the same time, though, the general bearing of the group was dignified. Spontaneously, with a reflex conditioned by the unwritten rule that at Versailles you never assumed you were safe from observation, the clan had been prepared to make a brave show from the moment they stepped out of the apartment into the beginnings of danger. Gabrielle de Polignac, still lost in her grief, had run a hand through her hair. She was reluctant to be seen in servant’s garb. Diane had stood more erect. I could sense, there in the dark, her eagerness to receive the marks of deference to which she was accustomed. Through the length and breadth of the country, their names were cursed; there was a price on their heads, and they were fleeing an imminent and deadly peril. But at this moment, they were still sustained by their pride as courtiers, pride bolstered by the nearness of rooms and physical objects that had for so long been the reflection of their glory. They did not require lighting to recognize that glory: all these great rooms singing the praises of Louis XIV and his victories had served as a setting for their own triumphs, too. How could they be expected, overnight, to stop thinking of themselves as masters of the world? Surely there was still opportunity for scheming and intrigue. They were still the lords and masters, even if, simply as a concession, they had decided to abandon their stronghold. They were increasingly convinced that such a view was correct. It almost made running away a clever piece of strategy on their part. For the moment, however, minutes counted, and Monsieur de Vaudreuil was now hopelessly lost. The Duke de Polignac was of no help. The group was becoming discouraged. All trace of courtly pride was gone from their demeanor. They were deserters running across open ground in enemy territory. “Where is that wretched exit?” exclaimed Diane. She took the situation in hand. We must split up and leave the château individually. She told us more than once where we were to meet, and each of us faded away out of sight of the others.
Before I had time to understand how I came to be there, I was in an underground passage. A vague, pale light made it just possible for me to creep along. Blocks of stone jutted out from the walls, and several times I barely avoided knocking myself unconscious. Very quickly, it became difficult to breathe. Something cold and clammy floated in the air and made your heart want to stop. But what was especially horrible was the swarms of rats running between my legs. “Watch out for patrolling guards with their dogs,” Diane had said as she sent me down below ground level. Inwardly, I was praying to meet such a patrol. Let them arrest me, let them do anything to me, so long as they save me from the rats.
I had instructions. I did not follow them correctly, and instead of emerging, as I expected to, level with a private entrance to the Théâtre de Madame de Montansier, I came out of the passage into a stable. Someone else was already there.
I stayed hidden in the shadows. I could make out two men having some sort of confrontation. They had raced simultaneously over to where a horse was tethered. It was a fine-looking animal with a gleaming coat. Fidgety and nervous, it was pawing the ground and lashing out with its feet. The two men were quite dissimilar. One, in court dress, was making a great effort to control his impatience. He was prepared to negotiate. He wanted the horse, certainly, but he wanted it in due form. The other, massively built, wrapped in a black cloak, with a hat pulled down over his eyes, was not saying a word.
“Sir,” argued the man in silken raiment, “I have no doubt that it was I who saw him first. Not by much, I grant you. And yet, that lead, those few seconds, in the present situation, a very confused, disagreeable situation, I will allow, should weigh with you.”
No reply came from the man wrapped in black. He reacted no more than would a gatepost with a blanket over it. The one who was all frills and furbelows was eloquent and obviously dressed for some special occasion. He was determined to convince his rival that he was in the right. He was not a horse thief.
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