A maid of the wardrobe helped the Princess off with her nightdress—holding it by the right sleeve while Yeyette held it by the left—and handed it to another maid of the wardrobe. A third maid of the wardrobe stepped forward with a chemise, the embroidered girdle, two petticoats and the yellow skirt. Petite averted her eyes from the naked Princess (red hair everywhere), but at the same time watching carefully, trying to memorize what was done and who did what.
Yet another maid of the wardrobe was let in with a tray of pearl necklaces and earrings. The Princess picked out the strand she wanted. The maid attached the necklace at the back of her slender neck, but the Princess put on her ear-rings herself. A valet of the wardrobe presented three lace nose cloths on a silver-gilt tray and another a tray of gloves and fans.
“How do I look?” the Princess asked, adjusting her camlet partlet with its matching hood.
“Beautiful,” the maids said in chorus.
Henriette waited as a valet placed two cushions on the floor beside the bed. The valet stood watching as she and the chamberlain knelt and prayed.
“Quaesumus, omnipotens Deus,” everyone chanted as she signed herself with holy water.
The Princess clapped her hands. “Now to Mass, my good ladies.”
They joined an enormous crowd of courtiers gathered in a long gallery. Two guards stood beside double doors. “The King’s cabinet,” Claude-Marie explained to Petite.
Petite and the other two maids stood behind the Princess as she conversed with three women—two duchesses (to judge by the length of their trains) and Athénaïs, who caught Petite’s eye.
There was a murmur in the crowd as the doors opened. Everyone sank into a deep reverence when the King appeared, followed by a crowd of men: his brother, the ministers of state, princes of the blood, foreign ambassadors, valets. Petite barely noticed the others; it was the King she watched. As he scanned the crowd, guards cleared a path. A man stepped forward and pressed a paper into the King’s hand. A secretary stepped forward to take it. Another man followed with a bow and a few words. The King nodded with a backward glance at his secretary and proceeded toward the chapel, raising his hat to the ladies. A woman swooned and was helped into the privacy of a window enclosure.
Henriette sank into a graceful reverence. The King took her gloved hand and kissed it. Petite, directly behind the Princess, touched the wall to steady herself. He was so close she could smell his cinnamon-scented breath. His eyes caught hers: paused.
Petite’s heart jumped. He nodded and passed on.
With trembling knees, Petite followed the King and his entourage into the chapel. She sat with the other maids behind Princess Henriette, clasping her hands tightly as they joined the King in prayer.
THE BALL THAT NIGHT was held in the François I gallery, yet another enormous room of fading opulence, its ceiling, walls and floor carved and painted like a jewel box. Grand windows over-looked the terrace and what Petite now understood was a large carp pond. Silver candelabra were placed on gilded tables set along one side. Great crystal chandeliers of at least twenty branches hung from the high ceiling.
Petite stood with Madame Henriette’s maids, watching as a parade of noble men and women circled the room in richly embellished satin and velvet. Prince de Condé was easy to identify because of his big nose. An elegant older gentleman with a lively manner was Nicolas Fouquet, the minister of finance. Petite spotted Athénaïs on the far side of the room and waved her fan. Their journey in the carriage the day before seemed a lifetime ago now.
Henriette was, Petite thought, one of the most beautiful women present, in spite of her freckles and red hair. In a gown of shimmering gold brocade—hurriedly hemmed only an hour ago—the vivacious Princess fidgeted excitedly, using her fan violently and calling out to people like a child at a fair. Monsieur, wearing face paint and three red silk patches in the shape of diamonds on his cheeks, hushed her. “Be still.”
At seven of the clock, trumpets sounded and the musicians took up their instruments. The courtiers all stood at attention and then fell into a reverence as the King, Queen and Queen Mother entered.
The King scanned the room with his eyes, his expression mask-like. With calm dignity, he received the passionate adulation. A woman at the back slumped to the floor and was efficiently whisked out of the room. (Petite gathered that swooning happened rather often.)
The King sat, followed by the Queen Mother and the Queen, in that order. Then Philippe and Henriette sat down, and after them, the princes and princesses of the blood and all the dukes and duchesses, taking their places according to the seniority of their title. And then the King stood, and everyone did likewise, the sound of scraping chair legs drowning out the music.
Solemnly, the King bowed to his wife. The Queen put her tiny hand on his arm and followed him out onto the dance floor. Petite could see the swelling of her belly, confirming what had been whispered. Monsieur and Henriette proceeded to the center as well, Henriette towering over her husband. Couple by couple, men and women of the inner circle positioned themselves, gentlemen on the left, ladies on the right. The musicians struck the opening chords and the dancers bowed to one another. The ball began.
Frowning in concentration, the Queen danced the branle. Her moves were mechanical—left, right, left, right—while those of the King infused the simple swaying motion with graceful solemnity.
A man whispered in Petite’s ear, “I think you will agree that His Majesty dances exquisitely.”
“Monsieur de Gautier!” Petite gasped. Her former dance master from Blois looked dapper in a felt wide-awake hat and white satin doublet.
He smiled, held his index finger to his painted lips and slipped away through the crowd.
A courante in triple time was announced, and men and women moved forward. The crowd murmured as the King bowed before Henriette and led her to the center.
“Now for the real performance,” a woman beside Petite said. It was Athénaïs, lushly adorned in crimson silk.
“You don’t dance?” Petite asked as the musicians took up their instruments.
“I prefer more sedentary amusements,” she said, watching the dancers make a deep reverence.
“Oh là là!” Petite whispered as the King took a springing step forward, then jumped back into fourth position with both arms raised.
Henriette answered his moves delicately and with precision.
“His Majesty and Madame Henriette seem made for each other, do they not?” Athénaïs asked behind her fan. “Pity.” She rolled her eyes toward Philippe, who was sitting out the dance with a frown.
Petite wasn’t sure how to respond to the comment. “They dance well,” she said, intent on the dancers.
The King advanced, balanced, turned and then made a deep bow to Henriette, his arms just so. Petite gasped as he sprang forward, performing one flawless pas de bourrée after another. As the cadence of the music came alive, he made a quick series of pirouettes with such graceful vivacity that it took her breath away. At the finale, he sprang into the air, beating his legs together in a vigorous cabriole.
“Bravo!” Petite cried out as the crowd burst into cheers. Bravo!
PETITE AND THE OTHER maids stayed late at the ball, not returning to their rooms until two of the clock. The next morning, Clorine had to shake Petite awake, but she was quickly revived by the thrilling prospect of a hunt—her first with the Court.
The courtyard opposite the chapel was already crowded with riders by the time Petite arrived. The King, at the gate, sat his horse with both reins in his right hand, his left hand resting on his thigh. Over a leather jerkin, he was wearing a brocade long coat with cuffs turned back to reveal billows of fine lace. A cloak was slung carelessly over his shoulder. The howling of the tufters could be heard in the distance.
Gentlemen riders were assisting the ladies of the palace onto stalking horses—old, steady, half-blind geldings that would never shy or bolt. “Don’t worry, he’s quiet,” a rider assured Petite, leading a
bay pony to a mounting block. The black leather sidesaddle was finely tooled. Even the bridle was embossed, its headband ringed with ostrich plumes. The rider gave Petite a leg up into the saddle.
With the cry “Halloo!” the King spurred his powerful mount and set off into the deer park, followed by the master of the hounds with a circular horn on his shoulder. Varlets with leashed running hounds chased after them on foot. The Queen and Henriette followed in a light open carriage, two of the Queen’s dwarves hanging over the sides, making faces. Petite’s pony reluctantly ambled into the park after the others. At a sharp tap from her riding stick he picked up his pace, but only for a step or two.
Inside the pale, at a bend in the path, a woman awaited on a small black horse. “I thought it was you.”
Petite was pleased to see Athénaïs, the elegant marquise.
“You sit a horse nicely, I see,” Athénaïs said with a smile. “Have you been on hunts before?”
“I used to hunt with my father,” Petite said. “As well as at Blois.”
“Hawking?”
“Most everything, but hart mainly, and hare.” A tree branch cracked above them, but Petite’s stale didn’t even twitch an ear. “It was not at all like this.” Not nearly so grand…so boring. Confined within the limits of a park, her father would have called it “hunting at force.”
Athénaïs slapped at an insect. “I hate being out in May,” she said, examining her glove for blood.
“It’s early to be hunting hart.” Petite’s father had preferred to wait until August. By then the bucks had lost their antler velvet and begun to put on rutting weight. Not so good for the chase, but better for the larder, he used to say. Clearly, the King was more interested in the chase.
“Frankly, I hate being out at all, but His Majesty insists on hunting at least three times a week. I think he would live outdoors if he could.” Athénaïs gave a rueful sigh. “And of course we all go along cheerfully…at least long enough to make an appearance,” she said with a sly smile, bidding adieu and turning her horse onto a return path.
With a sharp tap of her whip, Petite managed to get her palfrey to gallop on a loose rein. Guided by the sound of the horns, she came to a great carrefour with alleys stretching off in every direction, long straight lines of trees on each side and a thick undergrowth of ferns. She heard the faint sound of the horn, enough for her to distinguish the vue, which meant that the hounds were still running. Then suddenly she heard the great burst of the hallali, the horses, dogs and riders all joining in. Pushing through thick brushwood, she found herself on the edge of a sizable pond.
In the center, a fine stag was swimming about, his eyes bulging and his breast heaving. The dogs were swimming after him, followed in a small boat by the master of the hounds. The King and his men were on horseback on the far bank. Petite spotted the Queen and Henriette in their open carriage at the edge of the wood, people in carts and gigs behind them. The sound of the horns had brought out a crowd.
The stag finally attempted to get up on the bank, and the master of the hounds, close at hand, gave it the coup de grâce, the death blow delivered with a hunting knife.
Petite watched from the woods as the stag soiled itself and was half-eaten by the dogs before the master of the hounds succeeded in calling them off. She circled her horse around to join the Court as the bloody mass was hauled to the shore. There, with an attempt at dignified ritual, the King cut into the breast of the stag and presented the heart to the Queen. One of her maids put it into a leather hunt pouch, which the Queen hung from her neck, displaying her trophy proudly. The heart of a buck contained a bone that kept the animal from dying of fright; it would serve as a protective amulet when her time came.
Petite rode back with the others, following Henriette and the Queen’s caroche. The King rode at the head, his shoulders slightly slumped. A stag at bay was a fine sight indeed, but this kill had not been clean.
BY THE TIME PETITE got back to the château there was time for only a quick change of clothes before she was expected back at Madame’s.
“You’ll never guess who came by looking for you—your old dance master from Blois,” Clorine said as she combed out Petite’s fine hair, which tended to tangle. “Monsieur le Duc de Gautier.”
“He’s been made a duke?” Petite winced as Clorine pulled out a knot.
“Indeed! He’s director of festivities and gentleman of the King’s bedchamber—one of the King’s most trusted aides, according to the head pastry-cook. He wanted to make sure that you knew about the change in the day’s schedule. There’s going to be a gathering this afternoon to decide who dances the parts in a ballet. Now, now,” Clorine said, in response to Petite’s look of fright. “I assured him that you would go since—”
“Clorine, you didn’t.” Petite was aghast. She couldn’t.
“—since Madame will be there.”
Petite groaned, allowing Clorine to dress her in a plain linen bodice and skirt. Biting her lips and slapping her cheeks for color, she rushed through the arcades to the antler gallery, finally slipping in behind the crowd of chattering courtiers.
Monsieur le Duc de Gautier, at the front, rang a silver bell and everyone quieted. “The Ballet of the Seasons will open on July twenty-third, a Saturday,” he began. “It is, as most of you already know, to be a Madame creation.”
Henriette stood, made a charming curtsy, and everyone cheered. Lauzun made a donkey bray. Petite, standing at the back, laughed with the others.
“We have six weeks to prepare,” Gautier said, “which should be sufficient. Monsieur Benserade has already composed verses.” He motioned the poet to stand. “And Monsieur de Lully the music.” A handsome young man with Italian features made a bow. “As to the performers, the King will play two roles—” Gautier paused until everyone stopped applauding. “Initially that of Ceres—”
A murmur of amused surprise went through the crowd. The King was to dance the part of a goddess?
“—and then as Spring. Madame Henriette will dance the part of Diana, queen and huntress. It’s to be a ballet and opera in nine acts.”
Gautier reviewed all the acts, concluding, “The fifth act is Autumn, with vintagers, four female and four male—one of whom will be Monsieur.”
The King’s brother Philippe stood and was heartily applauded.
“I could be a vintager.” Lauzun staggered drunkenly.
Gautier waited for the room to quiet. “Thank you, Monsieur Lauzun. I will let you know. The sixth act is a brief interlude of six country gallants. The seventh, masques playing cards…or rather, losing.”
“I know that part well,” Lauzun called out, provoking laughter yet again.
“Thank you, Monsieur Lauzun,” Gautier said, raising his voice to be heard, “but I believe there are a number present who are qualified.”
Prince de Condé made a look of despair and everyone laughed knowingly.
“The eighth scene,” Gautier went on, “representing winter, sees the return of the King in the part of Spring, attended by Game, Laughter, Joy and Abundance. We’ll conclude with the ninth and final scene, which will feature Apollo in the company of Love and a number of muses.
“And so…to work.” The dance master opened his arms. “I will begin by casting Diana’s ten attendants, the nymphs. Who among you could perform a solo bourée?” Gautier surveyed the silent room. A lively dance in double time, the bourée had to be performed at staccato speed, with a playful, almost elated fervor. “Mademoiselle de la Vallière?”
Petite sent him a pleading look. No.
“Step forward, Mademoiselle,” Gautier said—kindly, but with a tone of command.
Petite shook her head.
He smiled with paternal suavity. “Ready?”
The musicians took up their instruments.
O Lord. The music swelled, reviving her courage. Petite took a step, and then leapt into the dance.
“CONGRATULATIONS, LITTLE SISTER,” Athénaïs said, touching the heart-shape
d mouche stuck to her cheek. Following Henriette’s example, all the ladies had taken to wearing spots. “I understand that you got one of the principal parts in Madame’s production.”
“Yes,” Petite said grimly. The gondola skimmed across the surface of the mirror-smooth carp pond, the reflection of the moon and stars shimmering on the water like a carpet of diamonds. Musicians were playing on a barge not far behind.
Athénaïs laughed. “Don’t look so apprehensive. You have, whether you like it or not, been propelled onto the main stage of this life of fantasy.” She waved her jeweled hand out over the water.
“Monsieur le Duc de Gautier was my dance master at Blois,” Petite explained, “so of course I knew the steps he requires.”
“You appear to have been a good pupil,” Athénaïs said with a slow and languorous wink.
PETITE HAD NOT BEEN able to sleep the night before the first rehearsal. “I won’t be able to go,” she told Clorine on rising. “My courses have started.” Or were going to at any moment. She was sure of it.
“Courage, Mademoiselle,” Clorine said. “Didn’t your ancestor ride alongside Jeanne d’Arc?”
“But he didn’t have to think about ordinaries.” Petite groaned, clasping her belly. “Please, Clorine. The King will be there, and I know I’ll fall on my face. I can’t even remember my name when he’s around. Tell them I can’t come. Tell them I’ve got the Black Plague or something.”
“Come, come. You’ll be fine. I’ll make you plantain juice. We wouldn’t want to disappoint the dear old Duc de Gautier, now, would we?”
A bowl of clarified plantain juice—generously laced with laudanum—and Petite was fine, as her maid had predicted. A little dreamy, perhaps, but pain-free. And thankfully, there was a reprieve. “His Majesty is held up in a council meeting,” Gautier informed everyone. There was a murmur of disappointment.
“But he will join us later, he said.” Henriette looked up from a pile of fabric scraps on a table in the corner of the great room. “At three of the clock.”
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