"My lord, you can't be serious!"
"Of course I am. She's mine, I can do as I please!" Claude Rousseau shook off the restraining hand of his friend, Andre. It was after midnight at the Court of Versailles in the French countryside, and many of the parties were only just getting started. Rousseau had been drinking hard, as was his habit, and for a while had been winning steadily at Le Poque , as the game of poker was called at Court. The year was 1678, and King Louis the Fourteenth had reached the zenith of his career. All Europe bowed before the nation of France , and the country itself had been brought by skillful tyranny to admire and obey the Sun King as sole sovereign over all.
The splendor of the Court lay in the beautiful palaces constructed at huge expense under the careful direction of the King, as well as in the luxurious furnishings of the apartments, the lavish dress of the courtiers, the sumptuous entertainments, the fame of the men and the beauty of the women drawn there by the magnets of money, reputation and power.
The morals of the Court included discreet but constantly present sexual dalliances, extravagance in dress and gambling, and passionate intrigues for prestige and place, all carried on a rhythm of external refinement, elegant manners and compulsory gaiety. Nobles and their ladies consumed half the income of their estates on clothing, lackeys and equipage; the most modest had to have eleven servants and two coaches, some of the richer dignitaries had seventy-five attendants in their household, and forty horses in their stables.
Gambling at cards was a chief recreation and Louis again gave the lead, bidding for high stakes, urged on by his mistress Montespan , who herself lost and won four million francs in one night's play. The gambling mania spread through the Court, and Claude Rousseau was no exception. This evening he had consumed several bottles of wine, and his hand now shook as he made what would turn out to be his final bet of the evening. Liquor had colored his ability to judge the skill of his bluff. The pile of coins he had started the evening with had dwindled to nothing, and still he went on. His old friend Andre shrugged, tired of arguing with a man who was about to give away the thing he should have held most dear.
Across the table Philippe de Valon silently surveyed the gentlemen. He noted Rousseau's wig was askew, and rivulets of sweat made little lines down the white powder on his sagging jowls. The man was desperate, and drunk, and not in a position to be making the wager he now made. And yet, who was Philippe to stop him? It was a curious wager indeed, and Philippe was not at all uninterested.
Lord Philippe de Valon , master draftsman, shipbuilder, heir to a huge fortune in the northern port of St. Malo , was at present one of the King's favorites. Though he would rather have been home in his own province, tending to his businesses and seeing to his properties, the King had bid Philippe to stay at Court, and continue to design lovely buildings for him. Of course, he was also invited to partake in the elaborate excesses of food, wine and, most especially, women.
Philippe had thought by now he had seen it all. But this latest bid by the Duke of Lyon was extraordinary, even measured against the cynical sophistication of the Court. It must be a bluff, surely.
But again Rousseau said, "As you can see, I am out of coin, but so confident am I in my hand that I am willing to risk the person of my daughter as collateral for my wager. You win, you get her. I win, I get the all the gold that has changed hands tonight, as well as two of your horses and a carriage. Fair?"
"More than fair," nodded Philippe, mentally calculating the value of this man's daughter to her father in his own head. It seemed a paltry price to pay for another human being! Especially a lovely young virgin. And did the father have the authority to hand over another human being? Yes, technically he did, as she fell under the estate of Le Duc Rousseau de Lyon. Still a man of some influence in the kingdom, Rousseau's once sizable holdings had been dramatically reduced by the King's taxes and forced 'gifts', as well as the duke's own mismanagement and neglect.
The duke's daughter, Colette, age eighteen, would surely be considered by most fathers to be a most prized possession. The duke, however, was not a sentimental man, and certainly not a loving one. For him, his three daughters had come down to a matter of gold. Each had a cost, since their father was expected to provide a sizable dowry to get them properly wed. Colette's two older sisters had just been successfully matched, and the cost to the duke had been substantial indeed.
Colette was, at the moment, asleep in her chambers in one of the smaller houses on the King's huge estate at Versailles , blissfully unaware that the course of her life hung in the balance over a game of cards.
"Well, then. Top this, if you can!" With a flourish, Rousseau spread his cards on the table. Philippe studied them carefully, and then slowly, his expression inscrutable, revealed his own cards. Rousseau's hand had been reaching for the pile of gold even while Philippe had been laying down his cards, so sure was he of his bet.
Now Andre, turning pale, shouted, "Claude! You imbecile! You've lost! You do not have the winning hand! Lord de Valon has outwitted you again! And now you've lost Colette! You fool!"
Rousseau spluttered and swore, his hands falling away from the gold as his face reddened, the words of his friend finally penetrating the thick fog of wine in his brain. "No! He cheated! It's impossible! I had the perfect cards! No!" Rousseau stood, pulling and fumbling at the sheath that held his sword. Fashion demanded that every gentleman sport a sword, and this was sometimes a dangerous state of affairs, when tempers were frayed and judgment blurred by alcohol. Philippe also stood, his hand on his sheath, not yet drawing. Several men at the table constrained the old duke, who fell back against his chair, his face now pale and sweating.
"A bet is a bet," intoned one of the men, and they all nodded. Rousseau seemed to age suddenly before their eyes, slumping in his chair and dropping his head into his hands.
Philippe took his own hand from his sword, though he remained standing. He decided to ignore the older man's insult that he had cheated. A duel with the old fellow would certainly lead to Rousseau's death, and Philippe had no desire to kill a man, especially not a drunken old sot like Rousseau.
"Gentlemen," he said, "This has been quite an entertaining evening. Unfortunately, I find myself quite exhausted and would bid you good night. Lord Rousseau, I will be by your chambers in the morning to collect my prize. Good night." Gathering the stack of gold in front of his place, Philippe bowed gracefully to the gentlemen at the table, the plume of his hat grazing the winning cards.
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