A lean, handsome figure stepped purposefully into the palace costumiers' area. He was tall and well-dressed, in a fleur-de-lys blue coat, an embroidered crimson waistcoat, and gold-cloth breeches trimmed with red ribbons. He swaggered in a most distinctive way into the shop, bearing an irrepressibly dashing smile. He glanced at a baroque mirror in the corner, lifted a suave eyebrow, and doffed his hat in an intricate bow to a satin-attired mannequin.
He waded through the clippings of golden thread, of plans and drawings, through the scraps of rosebud-colored silk, the claret-colored velvet, past the beseechingly headless mannequins.
"Jeanette! Jacqueline!" he called in an exceedingly pleasant voice. "Mes petites choux!" he teased them. "Mes cheries! Mes amours! Mes belles fleurs!"
There was a giggle. "Martin Touguerre, you . . . rascal!" Touguerre cried in mock offense, "Oh, rascal?!" He smiled like a brigand. "Yes, I do believe that suits me." He bowed to the palace costumiers, Jeanette Dots and Jacqueline Loreme, who entered from a small ante-room. Jeanette was shorter and less severe than Jacqueline, but it was clear both of them had once been very pretty maidens--and were now very pretty matrons.
Both women tried to keep their smiles hidden in the corners of their mouths and shoved their fists angrily on their hips. Touguerre motioned to the sofa amidst the dress-maker's clutter. They sat down modestly, holding their breath for fear of laughing, pretending all the while to be very displeased. "My dear Jeanette," Touguerre intoned, "I do believe your eyes get prettier every day."
"And I do believe, Monsieur," Jacqueline said with prickly sarcasm, "your tongue gets smoother every time you visit."
"And yours sharper, Madame," Touguerre said with an imitable mix of sardonic affection. Jeanette measured a piece of cloth as Jacqueline examined a lace ornament. Touguerre said nothing, giving the appearance of total calm, while in reality he was having difficulty selecting the words.
"Mesdames," he said quickly, "I need your help." Jacqueline let out a disgusted sigh as she stitched the lace to a gown's hem.
Jeanette smiled guiltily. "That's how we known the world is still standing, Martin--if you ask for our help."
Touguerre smiled in spite of himself. "It has to do with the ball last week--where, by the way, your costumes were exquisite--frankly I've never seen anything like them--"
"Or has she not fallen to your charms yet and must be sent the gown
reserved for the Queen Mother to be wooed?"
"Will you stop spouting past liaisons?" Touguerre mumbled. "All I want is her name."
Jeanette and Jacqueline gave each other a puzzled look. "Her name?"
they asked in unison.
Touguerre paused a moment, and a strange feeling came over him. The
feeling of slight embarrassment; he didn't think he'd ever felt it
before. If it had been a more interesting sensation like true love or
remorse--he didn't think he'd felt those before, either--he might have
savored it. But slight embarrassment was not an emotion to be
treasured. "She didn't tell me her name," he said rapturously. "But
she was . . . oh . . . she was . . ."
"No doubt like all the others," Jacqueline said testily, pinning a
ruffle to the mannequin.
"She is not like the others," Touguerre protested sulkily. "She is
more beautiful than Janine, more elegant than Veronique, sweeter than
Claudine, and . . ."he smiled rakishly, "more supportive than
Claudette."
Jacqueline sighed again. Jeanette spoke gently, though she held a pin
in her teeth. "Martin, you are so cruel to those poor girls! They are. . . infatuated with you, and you are completely unappreciative of
their sacrifices--"
Touguerre raised a roguish eyebrow. "Unappreciative? That's a little
harsh, Jeanette. The girls only have . . . good taste," he mumbled.
"It's not a treason, I think, to have a well-placed regard for a man of such . . . supreme elegance and dashing courtly manners as--"
"Enough!" Jacqueline snapped. "We've had enough of your boastful,
conceited, arrogant--"
"I always knew you loved me, Jacqueline," Touguerre laughed, kissing
the matron. "Now . . . her name, s'il vous-plait?"
Jacqueline grew as red as lace stained with an incautious seamstress's
blood. "Which one was she?"
"She was dressed in blue brocade trimmed with blond lace and with a
neckline so low--" Touguerre coughed and remembered himself.
"Her name is Isabelle de Lancret," Jacqueline said slowly, smoothing a
piece of silvery trim flusteredly in her hands.
"Where is she from? Where can I find her?" Touguerre pursued.
"Nobody knows," Jeanette said, smiling indulgently at Jacqueline. "She arrived the day of the ball and no one has seen her since. She has kept her mouth completely shut. It's rumored she's to be the King's new bride."
Touguerre fingered the lace on the mannequin. "We can't let that
happen, can we?" He bowed dramatically to the costumiers. "Thank you, ladies, you are, as always, the best."
As he left, Jacqueline and Jeanette looked and each other and shook
their heads. "There isn't anything to do about him."
It never occurred to Touguerre that Jeanette and Jacqueline had told
the entire truth; he had found that there always--good or bad, it didn't matter--had to be gossip about a personage at court. It simply made no sense that a beautiful lady should show up at court without any reputation preceding her--it made her more mysterious, certainly, but it was totally impractical.
Therefore it was imperative that Touguerre find another source of
gossip to discover the identity of the lady. And, for a man as popular as Touguerre was, it would not be difficult. However, he could have no idea of the resounding consequences of that simple name: Isabelle deLancret.
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