Paris - 1788
A time of glory, a time of trouble.
Paris was the glitter and the the grime of that Year of Our Lord 1788. The pendulum of the very rich and very poor had swung very wide, and the new ideas of "Liberty", "Democracy", and "Equality" were beginning to fill the breach. An equivocal monarchy, too used to its own invincible will and a hard-headed, stout-stomached peasantry too used to its own mismanagement, were on the brink of tearing themselves apart on each other. A new breed of young men, intelligent, hopeful, brave as only young men can be brave, saw this situation, and were waiting in the wings, biding their time, and licking their lips.
It was fitting, perhaps, that this time of tensile waiting was tided over by the grand pageant of entertainment for which Paris was always known. From food to clothes, to art, to dances, from speeches to plays, to even the mundane things like furniture or perfume, never had the better things in life been so ultimately the best. There were parties and feasts so lavish as to be ridiculous, and fashion and fun became so outrageous that the age coined a term - "Incroyable" - a term by which it is still known today. So many richnesses were displayed in so many ways, it was possible, for a time, to lose oneself completely from the realities of the day, and look only on the wonders, the stars come to earth, the seeming angels who turned Paris into what it was - the City of Light.
It was hardly a strange fact that the brightest of these stars seemed quite unaware of the grimmer side of the city.
But, it was a very strange fact that the two brightest points of light in the brilliant Paris firmament had never met each other.
The first star was, of course, Marguerite St. Just - actress and social maven extraordinaire. She was the most delightful thing to have been born in France since Athénais de Montespan, and twice as beautiful than even that lovely woman had been. Of course, Athénais had two marks against her - she had been an aristocrat, and had been dead for over eighty years. But, Marguerite St. Just was very much alive, and had the added interest of being a woman who had fought her way to fame and social standing. In an age when quality education was usually only obtainable for a woman if she was rich, plebeian Mlle. St. Just's moderately well-born cousin had sponsored her for entry into the famous Saint-Cyr convent-school of Paris. No one knew the intimate details of the story, but it was at least partially because of this excellent coup that Mademoiselle St. Just had become, at eighteen, quite the most brilliant woman anyone could wish for. After graduation from St. Cyr, she eschewed all suggestions for a retired career, and had stormed the castle of La Maison Moliere in less than a year. Even this not being accomplishment enough, she had begun a salon which rapidly became, not a second-place royal court, but a first-place intellectual forum. Make no mistake, she queened it right royally over anyone who chose to grace her home, but no one objected, for she could - if she so chose - entertain anyone, make them sparkle, and bring out their best and wittiest sides. Even the stuffiest of elderly French generals found themselves enchanted by her wit and native charm. Her ways were winning, her looks were dazzling, her ideas were. . . acceptably modern. . . and she was blessedly unaffected. Whenever she left the stage, the very title of "actress" fell away from her, and she was a real woman, delighting in her queendom over a glittering court of admirers. She did not seem to act the part - she simply was it. Her mind was keen enough to inspire real conversation, and her beauty attracted a natural and very numerous following. Invitations to #12 Rue Richelieu were selective, and the most sought after in Paris. Mlle. St. Just's smile was even more sought after, yet she managed, somehow, to make herself even more selective. Scandal did not touch Mademoiselle St. Just. It simply did not. It was impossible, but true. If she had a lover, no one knew of him. If she wanted one. . . well. . . be that as it may. Fashionable Paris was baffled by this fascinating yet somehow cool-hearted woman - even disgusted, perhaps, but definitely mystified. Her brother and her cousin were the only close-orbiting planets allowed near enough to know her inner thoughts or emotions. Her brother and her cousin. . . and that was all.
The other star of Paris at that time was - at first glance - the most improbable character to ever grace the banks of the Seine. Although he was an obvious foreigner, Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., was deliciously amusing (if you happened to like his English inanities - which most did), and he strode about in an palpable cocoon of good nature that lifted the spirits of just about anyone who came within line of sight of him. Admittedly, this was because he invariably made people feel, either that they were on a perfect plane of equality with him, or that they - the onlookers - were infinitely more intelligent by comparison. His clothes and his laugh were, perhaps, the only things memorable about him - but what memories they were! The way he tilted his eyeglass! His perfect cravats! The way his lace ruffles fluttered! The way his golden coat buttons gleamed, and his ringing laugh echoed! "Le Dandy Anglais", as they called him, was so harmless, so impeccable, so frilly and frothy that he was perfectly unforgettable! Of course, no one knew the slightest thing about his personal life, but what mattered that? His English friends - one or two of which stayed with him periodically - probably knew his history, but they - the English friends - were not nearly so amusing, so no one asked them much of anything. What was the point of knowing? Sir Percy was perfectly charming the way he was. Why was it that nearly the whole of fashionable Paris insistently grouped itself around this ephemeral stranger? Not a Marquise or a Duchesse of the day could have told you exactly why - just that he was fun, in a lighthearted and bubbly way - like champagne - and why should they care anyway?
But, everyone did care that these two great personages of Paris - the French actress and English fop - had never yet made an acquaintance. It was unspeakable that Sir Percy should have to hear second-hand all the wonderful gossip that had been bandied at Mlle. St. Just's salon, and equally horrid that those who regularly went to that salon might - by their very presence there - miss something deliciously funny that "Le Dandy" was more than likely to do or say. To get the two of them into the same room, just once - Oh! that would be entertainment indeed! Mlle St. Just, of course, could bandy words with anyone, and Blakeney was always doing ridiculous things at the functions he attended. Perhaps unfortunately, these were mostly balls, or card parties, or dinner parties, or garden parties, or anything, in fact, that promised food, drink, and a minimum of mental exertion. It was this last - so he said - that was the reason for his scrupulous avoidance of the salons - which were Mlle St. Just's forte.
He never expressed any opinion of her personally, but he derided all salons unabashedly. "Too much demmed thinking going on at those things - far too much," he liked to say, "Gadzooks - give me the younger generation, thank you! La! I'd rather play a lovely game of hazzard with a few merry young faces - and lose! - than have to sit about with some old bunch of brains - and talk!" And here he would yawn lustily, ignoring any explanations or protests, and then go on to win more gold at one sitting than any player (and one who was never yet suspected of cheating!) had any decent right to win.
Mlle. St. Just's opinion of the man was curtly expressed in one word - "Idiot" - and then she would turn back to whatever she was doing, or whoever she was speaking to, and it was as if Blakeney had never been mentioned.
Several times, a plot had been made to bring them together, but something always went wrong. No one was ever sure if it was deliberate, or just astoundingly bad luck, but the two principal players in this drama did not seem to care in least that they were depriving the whole city of a long cherished bit of gossip.
Thus, as the winter of 1788 came in, it seemed to all of French Society that the greatest and most entertaining meeting of the age would never take place.