A Grand Delusion

The Vicomtesse de Saint-Chantigney first met the Vicomtesse de Rollomonie at an evening soiree hosted by a mutual friend, the Duchesse de Bourgogne who opened the doors of her Paris salon to the wits and courtesans and petty nobility of society. Despite her lofty title, the duchess herself was a manufactured aristocrat, a decorative creation of the First Empire. The Vicomtesse de Saint-Chantigney, however, belonged to one of the oldest lineages in France, a reality which had its advantages and disadvantages. Pressed on by her mother, the Comtesse and various insipid suitors--among whom were d'Argentile and Scriblitier--the young Mademoiselle de Saint-Chantigney quitted the drawing room for the host's boudoir, excusing herself with a headache which no doubt arose from boredom. Upon her arrival to the suite of private chambers, she was surprised to find another girl around her same age sitting on the duchess's bed reading the Heptameron, a copy of Manon Lescaut by her feet waiting until she had finished the volume penned by Marguerite de Navarre.

The occupant of the bed was perusing the story about the Duchesse de Bourgogne from many centuries ago and her jealous infatuation of a certain knight in her husband's court. Mademoiselle de Saint-Chantigney, once she had glanced the title, smiled and introduced herself to the Vicomtesse de Rollomonie, offering the other girl her Christian name, Aimee, and a sound opinion of the story which was, "A very intense episode in the life of a very intense woman. But perhaps it was wrong of Duc Philippe to punish her so. Love should not be punished."

"But le duc lost his chevalier," the Vicomtesse de Rollomonie replied.

"Oui, however, le duc betrayed his chevalier's secret in the first place, ma Darlene," Aimee reasoned, pointing to the line in the text.

"He was forced to it," Darlene returned, defending the doubly wronged duke. "He could have lost his unborn son."

"Nonsense, nonsense," Aimee said. "La duchesse was never with child. She only said she was to make him feel guilty for his silence."

"I never thought of that," Darlene remarked, contemplating the illustration of the beautiful Duchesse de Bourgogne on the opposite page.

Aimee's smile broadened then, and she laughed. "It does not matter, mon amie. Come, come with me downstairs for some cake and ice. Give me some companionship in this dull company." And with that, Mademoiselle de Saint-Chantigney extended her hand and parted the bookish Darlene from her chivalric romances.

Since then, the two viscountesses became more than acquaintances. They always found the other out at later gatherings, steeling away to read or exchange banter in the garden. They never failed to identify each other behind velvet vizards at the grand masques hosted by the Marquis de L. or the Comtesse de P. Sometimes they rode together in the Bois de Boulogne, racing their horses along the Avenue des Acacias when the weather was particularly balmy, or else took their vermouth and ice at Tortoni's while watching the bourgeois clientele enjoy their middle class comforts in the heart of Paris. However, the opera was the pair's favorite meeting ground. After cajoling their papas to allow them to frequent the shows without chaperones, the both of them purchased a seasonal floor box at the Italiens to which they retired every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday.

It was here that they, equipped with lorgnettes, sweets, and opera bouquets, befriended the actresses of the stage and the courtesans of the grand tier. The greenroom introduced them to a number of handsome gallants from Saint-Honoré and Versailles, and the foyer gave them a chance to glimpse Napoléon ride past. Once, they even spoke to the fair Eugénie who complemented Aimee's golden curls and Darlene's eyes.

Darlene was of Finnish ancestry. Aimee was pure, unadulterated Gall, but it was Darlene, however, who received praise for her light-dark Scandinavian looks--her deep purple eyes, her brown-black hair, her creamy cheeks, and rosy mouth. Aimee was admired for her personality, especially her lively wit and musical voice that was perfect for narrating an anecdote about a gentleman killing himself in a duel over some trite offense, which no doubt involved an imagined slight against her honor. Suffice it to say, each viscountess had her own clique of admirers, and she smiled to its members every time she entered the floor box at the Italiens, espying the duke or viscount through her opera glasses during the overture. There were many intermission correspondences, furtive smiles, bouquets of camellias or marguerites, bonbons, and scented gloves. All were part of the theater culture and entertained the young coquettes immensely.

However, the arrival of a titled foreigner amused the two further as they competed for his affections, hoping to make him forget about his wife back home in Vienna or London. It was a game to them, an innocent contest of public seduction before the other and the rest of the opera-goers. They would smirk and bat their lashes while he kissed their perfumed hands or presented them with their furs from the cloak room attendant. He bought them chocolates and waited with them until their carriages arrived at the boulevard. Then they drop their fans and allowed him to pick it up, affording them an opportunity to slip a note into his tail pocket. Laughing, they recounted such amorous exploits to their individual following, inciting petty jealousy among the more passionate students of the Latin quarter if not the son of the Duc d'Orléans himself. Recently, their giggles were on the expense of a Graf von Frintzendel from Austria, a Grafas Thairble-Lannoc from Lithuania, and a Viskonte de Champlaine from Russia though his nom de terre suggested otherwise. Aimee had, in the vernacular, conquered the Austrian and Russian, but the Lithuanian fell to the charm of Darlene.

When the violet-eyed viscount returned to his beluga and ylang-ylang in Moscow, the viscountesses soon met a fair-haired, blue-eyed Hungarian who had just arrived from Pest on the emperor's invitation to critique the First Empire's cavalry unit--the French corps of hussars. Lieutenant General Vilmieux rode astride a white Lipizzan named Siglavy who wore rich red trappings in contrast to his master's golden braid on his attila jacket accented by Austrian knots on the sleeves, colored trousers, and a peaked shako cap with a green plume. A small contingent of minor officers and a few cadets accompanied Vilmieux along with their hard-drinking, hard-swearing, womanizing, swashbuckling way of living. The dashing and unruly company paid their formalities to the emperor and engaged in field observation for the time they were employed in assisting the French army improve itself. Afterwards, the cadets, and later Vilmieux and his men, chose to mingle with the civilian body of Paris and frequented state functions hosted by the empress or else attended the opera, the imperial box always available to the Monseigneur des Vilmieux should he request it at the Académie Royale or Italiens which he preferred above the former.

One by one, aimee and Darlene captivated the likes of Adojan, Ferenc, Soma, and Lantos, all captains under Vilmieux and had set up many midnight assignations at Saint-Germain or Montmartre over Champagne and ice. The air had been scented with lavender and verbena complemented by the heavier undertones of leather and vanilla citron. While they rode from the Rond Point to the Champs-Élysées under the light of the moon, a Magyar cavalier held a viscountess in his arms and whispered of riding on horseback along the Mur River amidst the white and green hill country of Hungary, passing by the craggy ruins of some ancient fortress which held the ground against the Ottomans. Graz, Buda, and Pest became pulsating metropolises so far from the familiar environs of Paris, Rome, or Vienna. And, while remembering the daughter of a certain hospod who had hired him to protect his lands, he offered a sugar cube to his faithful Lipizzan and a soft kiss to the viscountess wrapped in furs and who, out of amusement, wore his shako cap which partly covered her eyes as it was too big or else playfully wielded his riding crop, though she would never incite the stallion. The night rang with her laughter and the neighing of his equine.

Toward the middle of May, when the small troop of hussars had been in Paris for some five months, Aimee decided that she was tired of the captains, charming as they were, and the only one of the cadets, a hotblooded youth, with whom she had shared her evenings. The company would be departing in a few weeks, and it was rumored that the lieutenant general had gotten over a brief infatuation for one of the maids of honor at Impératrice Eugénie's court. It was on Monseigneur des Vilmieux that Aimee focused her efforts though it was a simple, natural, and unconscious resolution on her part. So with much eagerness, she came to an opera comique at the Italiens by herself. Darlene at the time was touring in the south, visiting a cousin in the Riviera. And while she was there in her ground floor box, Aimee forgot about her friend and the show and instead directed her attention to the imperial compartment above her own where the highest ranking hussar sat. Once, he looked her way, and she smiled, offering the possibility of love in the aftermath of his courtly rejection. She was just a viscountess equipped with Parisian wit and feminine fascination, but they were both available to the Hungarian soldier if he desired them. This private assertion, egged on by a second smile from the military Magyar, stayed with Mademoiselle de Saint-Chantigney, and during intermission she peered at the object of her secret longing through her opera glass, contemplating a charming badinage in the greenroom after the performance.

She knew she would be competing for Monseigneur des Vilmieux's favor with singing actresses and theater girls, but she also knew that nobility of blood triumphed over the nobility of the stage. Both wore furs, dripped with diamonds, and traveled in gold and azure paneled carriages, but for the viscountess the mink was slain in the chateau's park; the diamonds belonged to another viscountess who greatly resembled her from five centuries ago; and white Orlov trotters pulled the gilded carriage on whose doors blazed an armorial device. Aimee encountered the lieutenant general in the foyer where she and he awaited their respective conveyances, and she, feeling the moment propitious, initiated conversation with him.

"Monseigneur, I hope you enjoyed tonight's show," Aimee began.

Vilmieux, recognizing the little blonde woman who addressed him, replied, "Ah, Mademoiselle, indeed this evening's production was almost as captivating as the vision sitting in the ground floor box."

Aimee laughed despite herself. "Certainly you jest," she returned.

"But I do not," he said. "My capitaines have spoken of you, a delightful Vicomtesse de Saint-Chantigney who has a liking for feeding the stallions too many sugar cubes."

"And I would offer them almond milk and Savoy cake if I could because they would never receive them out in the fields," she stated, rubbing her gloved hands.

"It seems you care more for the charger than the hussar who rides him," Vilmieux noted.

"Non! Non! Le cavalier is just as well. Who else can tell about his adventures with a vicomtesse sharing his saddle in le Bois," she answered. "I never thought I would dream of a Magyar by moonlight."

"Nor I to see the ironhearted Lantos or the dipsomaniac Soma be subdued with a night in that vicomtesse's company," he added. "What a strange creature you are!"

Aimee gave him an archaic smile as secretive as the sphinx's. "Merci, Monseigneur, but I think it is a little unfair of you to say such a thing when you have only met me for the first time, non?"

"Ah, well," Vilmieux replied, bending down and kissing the viscountess' small hand, "we shall have to see each other again, perhaps by dusk in the Jardin des Tuilleries or some such location of that nature."

"When?" she prodded, hopeful.

"Hard to say, Mademoiselle," he said. "But I shall alert you at my earliest opportunity, which may well be tomorrow, with a private correspondence. Now, if you will kindly excuse moi, I perceive my valet waving to me from beyond the vestibule. In the meanwhile, I trust you to have an evening as lovely as you. Au revoir, ma vicomtesse."

And with that, the lieutenant general traipsed out of the Italiens, Aimee following his progression with her bright eyes. "Au revoir," she sounded out on her lips, cheeks glowing.

The next day Darlene returned to Paris, and the start of the eventide hour found the two peeresses ensconced in their familiar ground floor box. Aimee recited her escapade with one of the cadets while Darlene narrated the masque which her cousin threw in honor of the rites of spring. Afterwards, during the overture, both young women directed their opera glasses to the imperial box, giggling and smirking every time Vilmieux's own lorgnette encountered their own. Both parties naturally ceased their childish antics when the performance proper commenced and focused their attention on the stage. However, with the coming of intermission came a fragrant package for the viscountesses. Inside, among the white tissue paper, were pressed roses and a bag of raisins glaces. They reveled in the velvety touch of the flowers' petals and ate the sweets, passing the bag from one to the other.

"We must thank him!" Darlene said, flippantly tossing a rose out into the parterre. "We never had this much fun in the Riviera. Annette knows the dullest people."

Aimee laughed, tearing the petals from the tender calyx one-by-one, chanting in her head, "He loves me ... He loves me not ... He loves me! But what if he loves me not? Non! Non! He most assuredly loves me, just me!"

"Oui, of course," she replied, distracted.

The lieutenant general was looking at both of them. It was five minutes till the end of intermission. Slowly, the balconies and boxes filled with patrons carrying sweets or else twirling the chain that attached to their monocles. The viscountesses had finished all their raisins glaces and were currently making a floral arrangement with the dried blossoms on the velvet ledge of their box. The glockenspiel player sounded the four note chime, and the conductor raised his baton, silencing the orchestra which had been warming up.

Vicomtesse de Saint-Chantigney could hardly concentrate on the second half of the performance. She consulted her program repeatedly and cast her eyes to the imperial box even more so. Vilmieux was dressed in formal evening attire--military-inspired jacket, starched shirt, and epaulets. Decked out as a civilian, he still had a martial air about him which Aimee found irresistible. She would have probably snapped her neck from the frequency at which she gazed at her idol if Darlene had not joked about her infatuation between the third and fourth acts. Self-conscious, the viscountess retired into herself and fell into a reverie with a smile on her lips. The opera glass was always available to her, and she took it up to espy the hussar, content to admire his luxuriant blonde whiskers.

"How it must tickle when he kisses you!" Aimee thought. Speculation of like nature dominated her private musings. She was so enraptured in her own fantasies that she failed to realize the opera was over, and the theater resounded with applause and shouts of "Bravo! bravo!"

"Oh!" Aimee said, startled at the volume. "Oui, oui. Bravo! Wonderful! Exquisite! Oh, Darlene, I have forgotten what we have been watching."

"Mendelson, silly," Darlene answered, clapping. "Midsummer Night's Dream."

Aimee chuckled. "Now I remember--the wedding march. I must be dreaming in my own midsummer night."

"Hopefully you will awake by next midwinter," Aimee teased. "Come, don't look so deflated. Smile for me, won't you?"

Aimee gave her friend a weak little simper. From the corner of her eye, she observed Monseigneur des Vilmieux rise from his seat and quit his box. "Oui, of course, how amiss of me." And with that, she threw herself into the ovation that greeted the singers on stage. However, the roses she tossed to the arch landed curiously away and probably ascended to an altitude that would be deemed unnecessarily high by some. No doubt this "some" was the genial conservative wing of the house who held fast to tradition and the ephemeral love of aristocrat and actress--nothing permanent, mind. It was the flighty, fancy-free tradition of the Sun King and had no reason to die out during the First Empire.

"Oh, please, let us go to the greenroom," Aimee begged at long last. "This box stifles me, and ... That tenor I must speak with or I shall go mad."

"All right, mon amie," Darlene agreed, caught up in the excitement.

And on their way to the hallowed chamber of repartee and refreshments, the viscountesses passed the hussar who removed his nose from his program and stared at the retreating form of the Finn and the Frenchwoman, forgetting for a moment which was which--fortuitous perhaps or maybe just convenient. At any rate, Cupid laughed behind a bust of Lully that evening.

As soon as they had arrived, the troop of Magyar soldiers was leaving for Pest. Napoléon had been most pleased with their assistance, though the female half of his court were displeased with their brief stay until they were reminded that their own company of French hussars was ready to serve them. Impératrice Eugénie held a kind of farewell function for them. It was a masque of sorts at the Tuilleries. All the men had to dress in martial regalia or as chevaliers of long ago. Decorations and epaulets were encouraged, and the most well known military families were keen to display their multitudinous orders and honorary ribbons. Tricorns and medals, épées and golden spurs, capes and gauntlets flashed from man to man amid a sea of the female revelers who wore the traditional costumes of European peasantry or the pinioned and toga-clad aspect of Nike. Dancers glided around the marble ballroom, and others rode the length of the royal gardens astride a Siglavy or Conversano or, more as a treat, a Blitz or Xanthée. The night was warm, and the maskers took their ice and vermouth outside under the lime trees, the fountains spraying the air with mist.

Aimee, a composite of Youth and Victory, leaned against the trunk of a tree in the light of a lantern finishing a Maraschino ice with a silver spoon. The Vicomte de Viennois and the Marquis du Fayel had just danced with her, calling her an angel. She thought nothing of it since she had spotted the Lieutenant General making merry with the empress and her peacock-like retinue. She was confident that he would come to her next. After all, he had signed for the next dance on her card. And then he would press a missive into her palm requesting her to meet him at the violet hour. For the time being, she was content to have the hard trunk of the lime tree support her. The white blossoms waved above her gold-leaf circlet, and the grass tickled her sandaled feet.

The rest of the grove was dimly lit with fairy lights, exotically shaped lamps from which flamboyant streamers dangled. Tinted papers wrapped around the glass vessels gave the light emitted a slight coloration toward the more fantastic hues of green, purple, and pink. All that were lacking were a few sylvan spirits, wood sprites, and an ethereal fae king with battle ax and face paint. Aimee lost herself in a reverie of her environs until she heard voices from behind the topiaries.

"Oui, indeed," a girl or woman said.

"Well, then, I congratulate you," another feminine voice answered. "You have made quite a conquest. He must be madly in love with you."

"I do not think so. He is leaving in a few days," the first returned. "He is being polite."

"Ma foi, you are stupid!" the second replied. "What else could a note of such purport mean? I tell you, the man loves you and would die without you."

"He loves his horse and liquor," the first responded.

Aimee recognized her voice then. It belonged to Darlene ... Curious, the viscountess inclined her head toward the topiary, hoping to discover about whom the two were talking.

"Non! You confuse him with his capitaine. That Soma I will agree is infatuated with his flask and nothing else. He could be stranded in Siberia, but as long as he has a pint by his side, he will be content for the duration."

Laughter. "All right. All right. I concede defeat," the first said. "I shall answer the note."

"Imagine that," her companion replied, "the lieutenant general makes only one mysterious assignation and that, to, with you. How romantic it all is!"

"Oui, you distract Monseigneur while I secrete his reply into his pocket. Come, we must hurry."

At that moment, Aimee dropped her glass of rosé and ran away, not caring that the red wine splashed on her satin slippers; a jealous constriction of the heart afflicted her as she approached the garden gates, removing herself from the festivities. The orchestra played the final chord of the quadrille, and the Monseigneur des Vilmieux excused himself from the empress' circle. As he turned to locate the Vicomtesse de Saint-Chantigney, he espied her friend, Mademoiselle de Rollomonie emerging from the lime grove. Nearing her, he asked, "Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle, a moment please. May you know where la vicomtesse, your friend, is? I was to dance with her."

"Oh, I do not know, Monseigneur," Darlene responded, surprised at her friend's conduct. "Perhaps she has run off with some marquis or duc, a secret meeting which she forgot about when she requested you to dance. Forgive her. I'm sure she will return to you shortly."