Like a flock of gaudy chicks around their hen, we followed Madame into a large gallery with a row of four chairs and additional stools arranged at one end, before a makeshift space for the performers. Already the room was largely filled with courtiers and guests, all chattering with anticipation, and a small orchestra was playing lighthearted music, suitable to the coming players.
With others bowing and curtsying in deference, Madame made her way to one of the chairs in the front of the room. To me, knowing what I did, she seemed quiet and subdued, her smile a forced imitation of merriment. She was beautifully dressed, as was to be expected, and any pallor or lingering mark from her husband’s blow had been expertly covered by powder and cerise. It grieved me to think that she could likewise hide her suffering, for it made me fear she’d had practice doing so. Monsieur had not joined her in her carriage from the Palais-Royal, and thus far he’d not joined her here, either. For her sake, I prayed he wouldn’t.
“We stand back here, Louise,” Gabrielle whispered, prodding me into place behind the chairs and stools. “I hope your slippers don’t pinch, for we’re not to sit the entire night.”
“Who gets the stools?” I asked, looking at them with perhaps more longing than was proper. The gilded stools were low and cushioned with tapestry-covered seats tipped by fat, dangling tassels.
“You mean the taborets,” she whispered in return. “They’re only for the duchesses, just as the straight chairs are for those with royal blood—Madame and Monsieur—and the armchairs are for the king and queen. Everyone else must stand in His Majesty’s presence, unless he expressly gives his permission. Not that he will. He is a formal gentleman, and he likes everything ordered just so.”
“Even to having us ladies stand like soldiers?”
“Oh, His Majesty expects far more than that of us,” she said, holding her painted ivory fan before her face so others wouldn’t overhear. “I’ve been told that when he invites various ladies to join him in his carriage, he expects them to contain themselves entirely. He’ll not permit the horses stopped for anyone to use the privy or find other relief, and if a lady fails to oblige, or faints from the strain, why, then he falls into a powerful rage, and the poor lady is forever in disgrace.”
“That has happened?” I asked, more curious than shocked. “A lady disgraced for requiring the privy?”
“Oh, yes,” Gabrielle said solemnly. “I told you. His Majesty is king, and he expects to be obeyed in everything. Even the privy.”
But my attention had been drawn elsewhere. “Who is that lady?”
Gabrielle leaned to one side, the better to follow my glance. “The one with the gold-colored hair and the pearls in her hair? Merciful saints, what I’d do for pearls such as those!”
I nodded, watching the lady take her place on one of the taborets. She had the golden hair and wide blue eyes that I was coming to realize were the height of beauty at court. But she was also blessed with a voluptuous form and an indolent, knowing expression to her heavy-lidded eyes, and the way she moved through the crowded room, more a sensuous dance than a walk, drew the lustful gaze of most every gentleman present.
“She beguiled His Majesty, and no wonder,” Gabrielle continued. “To think that she was one of Madame’s maids of honor, the same as we are now, and next she’ll bear the king’s child.”
“She’s known to you, then?” So potent were this lady’s charms, even to me, that at first I’d not noticed the swell of her belly beneath the silk brocade of her gown, richer than any other in the gallery. Most women I’d known had turned sickly and peevish when they were with child, and retired from society. This lady seemed to flaunt her belly like a prize, sitting with her fingers spread over it like a ruler with his hand upon his golden orb, the symbol of his power.
“She’s known to everyone,” Gabrielle replied. “I marvel that you don’t recognize her yourself. Why, Louise, that is Madame la Marquise du Montespan.”
“A marquise.” I frowned, trying to recollect where I’d heard the lady’s name before, and in what context. “Yet she sits on a taboret reserved for a duchess.”
“That’s because while she is a marquise, she is also the king’s mistress,” Gabrielle said, her voice full of hushed awe. “She has lodgings here in the Louvre near his, and he has lavished every manner of gift upon her. Others flock to her, knowing she has the ear of the king, and influence to match. What is a taboret beside that? Those close to His Majesty swear she has bewitched him as much with her wit as with her body. Ah, she has such power here at Court!”
Such power at Court. I tried to imagine what that would be like, to take my place in a magnificent room and know that every eye was upon me. This, then, was what all my peers among the maids of honor wished most ardently for themselves. Was the love of a king that different from the regard of ordinary men?
“Her child,” I asked, feeling bold indeed to speak of such matters. “Is His Majesty the father?”
Gabrielle laughed wickedly behind her fan. “His Majesty believes he is, which makes it so, even if it is not. I doubt the marquise knows for certain herself. But consider the good fortune of her bastard child, to be owned by the king, granted a title and an income at birth!”
I considered the two empty armchairs near the marquise’s taboret. “What of the queen? How does she bear to have her husband’s mistress so near?”
Gabrielle shrugged. “It is not her right to object to His Majesty’s wishes. After Montespan left Madame’s household, His Majesty made her a lady-in-waiting to the queen. If Her Majesty accepted her husband’s mistress as one of her attendants, then she will hardy object to having the marquise here tonight. Besides, what would the queen earn for herself by protesting? The king would not alter his wishes, and displeasing him is always unwise, even for the queen.”
Just then, Madame turned in her chair, beckoning to me to join her. “Madame de Keroualle?”
“Yes, Madame.” I shared a final glance with Gabrielle, who in that wordless instant made it clear that she was both surprised and chagrined by the duchess’s favor toward me. I slipped my way among the other attendants to curtsy beside Madame’s chair.
“There you are.” Her smile was both welcoming and weary as she looked up to me. “Stay by me, mademoiselle. Your company pleases me.”
As I began to murmur my thanks, I saw her gaze slide past me, and distress flicker through her eyes. Only a moment, and then it was gone, swallowed once again within her, but I saw it still. Instinctively I turned to discover what had affected her.
Monsieur had entered the gallery and was making his way to the front of the room, moving slowly among the others as he paused to greet friends and laugh with them. He was even more sumptuously dressed than when I’d seen him earlier, and he’d exchanged his wig, too, for one that had multicolored bows tied to ends of every lovelock. In the crook of one arm he carried a tiny white dog with matching ribbons tied into the fur of his trailing ears, while his other hand was tucked familiarly in that of another gentleman: Philippe de Lorraine-Armagnac, the infamous Chevalier de Lorraine. This man was as beautiful as an angel in face and form, and would have merited the sighs of a thousand ladies, save that he was painted and garbed with the same decorative luxury as Monsieur himself.
I’d never seen such a couple, nor one so open regarding their tastes and perversions. Yet knowing what I did about Monsieur and how he’d treated Madame, I watched him with his favorite and saw not his frivolity, but his menace. When he chose to sit on the farthest chair on the other side of the room instead of his place beside his wife, I shared Madame’s obvious relief to have him safely at a distance.
“How pretty your hair looks dressed that way, mademoiselle,” Madame said to me, her smile at once more relaxed. “The fashion becomes you.”
I began to thank her, but before I could, a servant announced the arrival of the king. At once the entire company rose with a rustle of silk and a murmur of voices. Eager for my first glimpse of His Majesty, I rose up
on my toes and craned my neck, striving to peek over the heads of the others. Though I couldn’t yet see the king, I knew when he entered the gallery, for as soon as those near the door spied him, every gentleman bowed and every lady sank into her deepest curtsy, the motion spreading through the gallery with the rolling inevitability of an ocean wave.
Even Madame rose from her chair to curtsy, for though she was the king’s first cousin with the blood of two countries’ royalty in her veins, she was still his inferior. Of course I curtsied, too, and stayed low, waiting to be guided by Madame’s actions. My heart raced with excitement as I heard the footsteps coming closer. At last, at last, I was to be in the presence of His Most Christian Majesty!
Even with my head bowed low, I could roll my gaze forward to look before me. First I saw before me a pair of the most elegant gentleman’s shoes imaginable: golden leather with a squared toe, the high red heels that only the nobility were entitled to wear, tiny buckles sparkling with brilliants on the tongue, and then scarlet stockings embroidered with gold clocks at the ankles. The feet in the golden leather were large, the calves in the red silk muscular, the legs of a rider. Beside them was the ferrule of an ebony walking stick, clearly employed for effect, not for support, and perhaps even as a substitute for a scepter.
“Good evening, Madame,” the king said, his voice solemn and polite. I was surprised he greeted her with such formality, considering they were family through both blood and marriage. But then he was the King of France, and she was only the duchesse d’Orleans, and I—I was so humbly born in comparison that I’d no right to judge either. “We are pleased you have joined us.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Madame said softly, and I could hear the smile and the warmth in her voice for him. She stood upright beside me, her skirts slipping from her hands, and when all the other ladies around me began to rise, I rose, too.
“Who is this lady?” he asked, and with a start I realized he meant me. “Your new maid of honor?”
Quickly Madame introduced me as I curtsied again. “Mademoiselle’s father has always been most loyal to Your Majesty, and served in your army. Further, her family offered comfort to the English refugees who supported my father and brother, with special tenderness for those who espoused the True Faith.”
“We are grateful they have shared her with us,” he said, and smiled. “Welcome, mademoiselle.”
“I—I am honored, Your Majesty,” I stammered. “Most honored.”
I shouldn’t have been startled to find His Majesty regarding me with interest. I was young and knew I was considered beautiful enough that even my country-fashion gown would not completely disguise me. I was a member of Madame’s household, and I knew that had been the nursery bed for at least two of his mistresses. Also, and perhaps of most importance to the king, I was new to the palace, and it was widely understood that His Majesty distrusted strangers.
In turn I studied him, too. I’d heard so much of him—of his comeliness, his grace and manners, his absolute manly perfection—that I doubt I could have refrained from considering him even if I’d been ordered not to. I was eighteen, and he was my king.
And what did I see? A gentleman slightly over moderate height in the full glory of his manhood (he was then only just thirty years of age), dressed with splendor like the monarch he was, from the toes of those golden shoes to the top of his cocked black beaver hat, trimmed with a veritable crown of scarlet plumes. His wig was lush and long and very black, though I guessed that was likewise the color of the hair nature had granted him, matching his brows and slender mustache. His nose was long and narrow, his chin dimpled and full, and his mouth was poised in a half smile of constant pleasantry.
Yet as much as I was prepared to be impressed by the king’s personal glory and magnificence, I was . . . disappointed. His expression was too careful, too reserved, without the emotion or passion that would bring his face to life. His elegantly almond-shaped eyes were shrewd rather than intelligent, and bright with ambition, but they shone with very little kindness.
I did not judge him handsome at all.
“You always choose the fairest flowers for your own, don’t you, Madame?” he said, tapping his walking stick lightly on the floor as she smiled at me. “Please Her Highness, mademoiselle, and thus you will please us.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I said, but he was already turning away to join Monsieur and Madame du Montespan, and the empty chair that would, it seemed, be left unoccupied by the queen. Already I knew there would never be a handkerchief dropped before me, and the secret relief that came with that knowledge was boundless.
Beside me Madame watched him, her face as carefully composed as his had been toward her, the face of royalty at Court. Yet in her eyes, I saw the truth.
She loved him. Not as the brother of her husband, not as her king, but as the man she could never have. My poor English princess! I understood much now, and in my inexperience, I thought I understood everything.
I was wrong. Sadly, sadly wrong.
Chapter Four
PALAIS-ROYAL, PARIS
December 1668
The first snow of the season had fallen in the night, just enough to cover Paris with the most delicate veiling of white, like a confection feathered with sugar. It was hardly enough to keep Madame from her morning walk, and as soon as she was sufficiently fortified against the cold—fortifications that included layers of woolen petticoats and kerchiefs, a cloak and gloves lined in fur and a muff as well, for the princess, being so thin, felt any chill most grievously—we stepped out into the palace’s gardens, and the bright morning sun.
“A beautiful day, Louise, isn’t it?” Madame said, breathing deeply of the icy air. “I cannot fathom why anyone would wish to lie abed by choice on a morning such as this.”
“Nor can I, Madame,” I said, glad to be outside and away from the too-close quarters of my shared lodgings as well. The gardens behind the Palais-Royal were the princess’s favorite place in Paris, and she lavished much time on her gardeners planning the beds and bushes. She claimed that this interest came from her English blood, that all people from Great Britain loved their gardens, though I doubted that so rough and wild a country ever produced a garden as precise and formal and overwhelmingly French as one belonging to the Palais-Royal.
“Mark this, Louise: the air’s so cold, it shows my breath.” To prove it, she puffed up her cheeks and slowly blew out, making a small cloud before her face like one of the four winds cartographers draw on the corners of maps.
I laughed, pleased to see how my breath, too, showed before me. I was the only maid of honor who chose to rise early with our mistress (who, with her usual kindness, did not make these walks a requirement for her ladies), and I’d left them all still noisily asleep, snuffling and mumbling with their hair tied in rags to curl and their faces slick with various potions designed to enhance their beauty. Being country-bred near the sea, I believed my skin benefited far more from walking out-of-doors than from any foul-smelling unguents, the most popular one at that time being distilled from the piss of small dogs.
For all the suffering Madame had endured in her life, she was still but twenty-five, and liked to set a brisk pace. Her other two constant ladies-in-waiting were older, and perfectly content to let me be the one who squired Madame between the clipped hedges and parterres.
But there was more than rosy cheeks to these walks with Madame. As we walked side by side, the princess began to confide in me as a trusted companion, and spoke to me of whatever filled her head. Part of her love for her gardens was because of their vast size, and the certainty that this was the one place she’d not be overheard by her husband’s spies, and thus I was told many things of a most private nature. I heard more of Monsieur’s infidelities and barbarous treatment of her, of how she’d wept when Louis had wed not her, but a Spanish princess; and how wounded she’d been when not once, but twice, he’d taken her maids of honor for new lovers.
I won’t claim that I contrived this
familiarity. I was only eighteen, and I hadn’t yet curried my cleverness to that extent, or my ambition, either. I was lonely, and Madame was kind to me. In the beginning, it was as simple, and as complicated, as that.
But her tales saddened me no end, for I had come to love her not just as a mistress, but for her own sweet self. To see her treated so ill, with no recourse, was a sorry thing indeed. Who would have guessed that the life of a royal princess could be so unhappy?
There were but two topics that served to raise her spirits. The first (albeit the less interesting to me) was her daughter, Marie-Louise, six years of age and the only one of several infants to have survived. The second was far more fascinating: her oldest brother, Charles Stuart, the English king.
To hear Madame describe him, Charles was everything in both a king and a man that Louis was not: generous, charming, witty, and impulsive. Both cousins had suffered as impressionable boys at the hands of their subjects, surviving civil wars and injustices that had threatened their thrones. The uncertainty of the Fronde had made Louis innately suspicious of Paris and determined to rule implacably and at a distance from his people, while the far greater sufferings of Charles—the beheading of his father, King Charles I, the scattering of his mother and brothers and sisters while he likewise was in exile, a wandering decade in poverty unbecoming to any prince—seemed to have done the opposite.
In Madame’s telling, her brother walked through the streets and parks of London with an astonishing ease, speaking to any man as he pleased. He attended the public playhouses, drank beside sailors in taverns, rode his own horses in races, and swam naked in the Thames River for all the world to see. With a sister’s pride, she claimed him to be as tall as a giant and as handsome as Adonis, though with a nonchalance in his attire that made her despair. I longed to meet such a royal paragon, and when at last I confessed my desire to the duchess, she’d winked merrily, and vowed she’d do her best to make my wish come true.
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