“Excellent. That should give us time to go through the entire sequence,” Gautier said. “We will begin with the overture.”
There was a great shuffling about as members of the choir moved into position. Monsieur de Lully raised his baton. The deep male voices reverberated in the cavernous room: “Who, in the night—”
Monsieur de Lully made a sour face and covered his ears, shaking his head. “Autre fois.”
“Who, in the night—”
There was laughter this time. “Une plus de fois, questa volta con energia,” Monsieur de Lully said, mixing French and Italian, but his meaning clear.
He raised his little baton and the men’s deep voices boomed: “Who, in the night, brought back the sun? Such beautiful stars have never been seen.”
“Magnifico! Quello era bello!”
The rehearsal went on all afternoon, Monsieur de Lully working with the choir and musicians, Monsieur Benserade making changes to the lines, Gautier directing the dancers through their steps.
Petite worked through her sequence nine times, yet even so it eluded her. She was concentrating so hard trying to master it that she didn’t notice when the King entered. Belatedly, she fell into a reverence.
“Don’t stop on my account, Mademoiselle,” the King said, tipping his hat.
Petite looked behind her.
“No, you,” he said. “Show me that sequence.”
Petite froze. She doubted that she could take even three steps without stumblings and slidings.
Gautier caught Petite’s eye. “Your Majesty, Mademoiselle de la Vallière will be delighted, I’m sure, to perform for you.” He made a twirling motion with his index finger as if to say, Mademoiselle, wake up, the King has spoken.
“Your Majesty,” Petite said with a curtsy, her heart pounding so violently she feared she might faint, “I am honored, but…” She raised her eyes, not sure what to say. She saw then not the King, but the young man she’d encountered in the wilderness at Chambord, calming a skittery horse with gentle authority. “But it’s a challenging sequence, and I’ve yet to master it.”
“I understand, yet you danced it beautifully just now.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Petite said, her voice tremulous.
“Perhaps if I danced it with you?” He signaled the musicians and held out his hand.
Petite put her hand on his. Pulse racing, and conscious of her feet, she stepped crossways over her left leg and made a sharp quarter-turn to the right.
Smiling with his eyes, the King led her through the fast, intricate steps: forward, behind and before; to the right, to the left, open. “Now,” he said, rising on his toes, and she gave herself up to the delirium of the quick, shuffling and stamping steps. Sing ye!
The room burst into applause.
IN THE DAYS THAT followed, everyone accorded Petite a noticeable respect. Even the Duchesse de Navailles nodded to her in passing. Petite told herself that it was insignificant, that it meant nothing, yet even so, she walked in a reverie. She had yet to wash her right hand, the hand he had touched.
Chapter Sixteen
NICOLE ARRIVED IN THE MIDDLE of June, the day Henriette turned seventeen. Petite didn’t recognize her at first; she was wearing face paint and she’d wired her dark hair so that it stood up high over her brow. She made a clumsy curtsy before the Princess, not daring to tip her head lest the construction topple. Petite smiled at her encouragingly.
“You must be my birthday gift, Mademoiselle de Montalais,” the Princess said in that ebullient way that everyone found delightful. “What are your unique abilities?”
“I can hear what people are saying from a distance,” Nicole said after a moment’s reflection.
Henriette laughed. “That’s a dangerous talent at Court.”
“And I keep secrets,” Nicole added.
“I shall make use of you,” the Princess said.
“I have so much to tell you,” Petite whispered at the first opportunity.
Nicole stared over Petite’s shoulder. “That man with the big nose must be the Prince de Condé. And isn’t that Maréchal d’Albret talking to the Comte de Guiche, and…Oh là là, that’s surely Nicolas Fouquet, the Marquis de Belle-Île.”
“How do you know all these people?” Petite asked, turning to look behind her. Impeccably dressed Nicolas Fouquet was standing close by in the company of an older woman. Fouquet was only a marquis, but as minister of finance he was one of the most powerful men at Court. “I’ve been here over three weeks—” Three weeks, five days, two hours. “—and I’m only beginning to sort out who’s who.”
“Monsieur Fouquet’s saying his château is almost finished,” Nicole told Petite in a low voice. “And the woman he’s talking to wants to know how his wife is doing.” She paused, concentrating, then added, “He said she’s uncomfortable in this heat. Is his wife with child?”
“I didn’t even know he was married,” Petite said as the musicians began to play. Certainly, he didn’t behave as if he was.
After an outdoor excursion, followed by a feast, a theatrical performance and yet more food and drink, Petite showed tipsy Nicole back to their rooms, leading the way by the light of a taper. The moon was a sliver; here and there candles could be seen flickering in the château windows.
“This place is a gossip’s paradise,” Nicole said, making herself comfortable on her rumpled trundle bed.
“Not everything you hear is true,” Petite cautioned, checking the stability of a stool before sitting down on it.
“For sure the King covetises his brother’s wife—and that’s understandable: the Queen is with child, so he can’t swive her, and if his seminal backs up, he’ll die.”
“Nicole, it would be wrong, and you know it.” Petite sounded more sure of her convictions than she was, in fact. Everything she’d been taught about right and wrong seemed to be different at Court. “And in any case, I don’t believe it.” She had been at Court long enough to know that much was not as it appeared.
“Didn’t you see Monsieur Philippe go stomping off into the woods?”
“People go into the woods for lots of reasons.”
“According to the Marquise de Plessis-Bellièvre, he was in a jealous fury.”
“The Marquise du…?”
“You know—the woman with bad breath, Fouquet’s spy.”
“Monsieur Fouquet has a spy?”
“Practically everyone is in his pay. That ugly, short little guy…what’s his name?”
“Monsieur Lauzun?”
“Yes, the funny one. He intimated that Monsieur Fouquet is angling to take over—wear the crown.”
“And to think that you’ve only just arrived.” Nicole’s wild stories were at least amusing.
“But what I’ve yet to figure out is who you’re sweet on.”
“No one,” Petite said evenly. It wasn’t going to be easy hiding her heart’s passion from her friend.
AT BENEDICTION EACH evening, Nicole held the candle as Petite read the Psalms out loud. Afterward, Henriette and Philippe walked out into the fragrant gardens, followed, at a distance, by their whispering attendants.
“Henriette and Philippe had congress last night,” Yeyette confided. There had been evidence in the sheets.
“Philippe touches a rosary to his privates before the act,” Claude-Marie said. His valet had told her himself.
And then everyone started talking at once.
“The Queen is complaining—she doesn’t like that the King is always at Henriette’s.”
“The Queen Mother is suspicious as well.”
“She’s always watching.”
“Yesterday she told Madame that night excursions will harm her health.” They laughed at such a notion.
Petite walked on, only half listening to the chatter. She had had two letters and a parcel in the post that morning: one letter was from Jean in Amboise (complaining of boredom), the other from her mother in Paris (with advice on how to cover blemishes). The parc
el was from her aunt Angélique in Tours (with laces she’d made and prayers for her safety).
“But then, the Queen Mother is sixty,” Petite heard Nicole say behind her, “impossibly old. Don’t you agree, oh sage one?”
Petite turned and smiled—although, in truth, she thought the Queen Mother wise to be watchful.
The following day, the first Monday in July, Petite was in the château library, looking for a book to read aloud to the Princess, when Nicole entered, flushed and out of breath.
“Guess who just arrived,” she said, panting. She’d run all the way from the carp pond.
“Who?” Petite asked absently, deciding on Cléopâtre by La Calprenède to read to the Princess, and Cicero’s On the Good Life for herself. She wanted to improve her Latin, and his essays “On Duties”—providing a moral code for the Roman aristocracy—were of interest.
“Henriette’s mother.”
The Queen of England?
“I think the Princess is in for a scolding,” Nicole said in sing-song.
That night, the gathering at Henriette’s was gay, but in a careful, deliberate way. Henriette deferred to her mother, and was unusually gracious to the Queen Mother and the Queen. As for the King, she gave him the respect he was due, but beyond that, not a glance. For most of the evening Henriette sat beside her husband and even laughed at his jokes.
“So, she was scolded,” Nicole said.
Petite closed her fan, reflecting on a line from Cicero: that if one adopted moral goodness as a guide, understanding practical duties followed automatically.
“Mademoiselle?” A man’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
Petite looked up. “Your Majesty!” Had she done something wrong?
“May I request the pleasure of hearing you sing?”
“Of course,” Petite stuttered.
“Oh, yes,” Henriette said from across the room. “Mademoiselle Petite has the loveliest voice of all my maids.”
Petite got to her feet and went to the harpsichord, where Claude-Marie was seated. She stood frozen for a moment, both terrified and perplexed. She loved to sing, but only when alone. Had Henriette ever even heard her?
“Well?” Claude-Marie asked in a miffed tone, pulling on a ringlet.
“‘Enfin la Beauté’?” Petite suggested. It was a lovely air de cour.
Claude-Marie screwed up her face. “Enfin what?”
“I can sing it without accompaniment,” Petite told her and turned to face the room. Mercy. The King was sitting directly in front of her, flanked by the Queen Mother, the Queen and the Queen of England. Behind them were Henriette and Philippe and several princes of the blood, ministers of state, the dukes and duchesses. Standing in the alcoves and against the walls were all the lesser nobles and their attendants.
Petite looked up at the ceiling, not daring to meet anyone’s eyes until a moment of dizziness passed. What was it her aunt Angélique used to say? That song was God’s language. She took a deep breath.
PETITE WAS AWAKE for a long time that night, going over what had happened in her mind. The King had asked her to sing, he’d listened to her intently and, after, he’d applauded vigorously. At two of the clock, she finally fell into sleep, giving way to a blissful dream: that the King was not married, that he was not even King, that he loved her to sing for him. She woke the next morning, her covering sheets in a knot, her heart aching. She slipped out of bed and onto her knees, praying for a guide to moral goodness.
That morning, Henriette greeted her warmly. “Our angelic singer,” she said brightly, tossing back her hair. “You please the King, Mademoiselle Louise, and that pleases me.” She gave a simpering smile.
Claude-Marie and Yeyette glared. Nicole threw Petite a look of consternation. What does it all mean? Petite wondered. Clearly, she had done something wrong—but what?
In the days that followed, Petite’s confusion increased. On the Friday, instead of joining Madame Henriette’s table for cards, the King joined hers. The night following, when it was her turn to dance as Henriette played the virginal, he pointedly turned to watch. The next afternoon, he commanded Yeyette and Claude-Marie to be silent as she read out loud from Don Quixote.
The King seemed to be favoring her—but why?
It means nothing, Petite told herself, her heart quickening. She knew he couldn’t be serious. Coquetting was an innocent diversion at Court—but even so, why would the King coquette her? (And why not Henriette?) For that matter, why would he pay court to her at all?
“TODAY: A REVIEW of the impolite actions,” the Duchesse de Navailles announced in their usual place of instruction in the common room. “Mademoiselle Louise de la Vallière, perhaps you can begin.”
“Cutting nails in company. Laughing loudly,” Petite offered. They’d been through this lesson several times already.
“Especially at the mistakes of others.” The Duchess nodded with approval. “And?”
“No yawning,” Petite went on. Not only was it rude, it was how the Devil got in.
“But what of reading?” the Duchess asked, noting the girdle book Petite had hanging at her waist.
“One is not to read while others are talking,” Petite said, distracted by Yeyette and Claude-Marie snickering behind her. “Nor the reverse.” No reading while others were talking, and no talking while others were reading. Between the two, it was hard to know what to do.
“And no reading aloud in company without being asked,” Nicole offered.
“By the person of the highest station,” corrected the Duchess.
They all nodded. That was the one clear rule: every move, every glance and breath, was determined by station.
“I should not have to remind you that there is to be no talking while someone is reading, or singing, or playing an instrument,” the Duchess said, pointedly addressing Yeyette.
Nicole nudged Petite. The evening before, the King had commanded Yeyette to be silent while Petite sang.
“Tomorrow, we’ll review the etiquette of the stools,” the Duchess said as her footmen helped her to her feet.
“No mocking others,” Claude-Marie whispered after the Duchess had left, limping out the door in an imitation of Petite.
“No gazing rudely,” Yeyette said, turning to make bug-eyes.
Nicole linked Petite’s arm in hers. “And above all, no spitting,” she said, aiming neatly at Yeyette’s cheek.
“You shouldn’t have done that!” Petite hissed, pulling Nicole away.
“It was just a spray,” Nicole said, shaking free. “The wenches,” she added, making a monkey face at them over her shoulder. “Simpering giglets. They’re just jealous because the King shows you favor.”
“That’s what I don’t understand, Nicole,” Petite said as she headed to the pond. “Why me?” She picked up a flat stone and skipped it hard over the water’s smooth surface.
“Maybe because he likes you?” Nicole suggested, but with doubt in her voice.
“You know that’s not possible.”
“I know. You’re right—but he makes as though he does.”
Petite kicked up the blossoms that carpeted the ground. She was bewildered by the way Henriette seemed to be encouraging the King’s attentions to her, and dismayed over Claude-Marie’s and Yeyette’s jealousy. She couldn’t help but be honored by the King’s apparent regard—but what about the Queen? He was married and he shouldn’t be acting this way, to Henriette or to her.
“Maybe that’s what it is—an act,” Nicole said, lowering herself onto a wide stone bench. “Maybe he’s trying to make Henriette jealous. That happens in books.”
“But that’s just it.” Petite sat beside her friend. “Madame doesn’t seem jealous in the least.”
Nicole leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Something’s not right.”
“Nicole, could you find out?” Petite asked, desperate now.
“You mean spy?” Nicole grinned.
“I SOLVED IT,” Nicole whispered to Petite the next morning
, joining her at the breakfast table. “I had to bribe one of the pastry-cooks.” She bit into a roll. “You owe me six sous.” She looked around to make sure no one was near. “It’s just as I thought,” she said, moving close. “He’s pretending to court you.”
“Like in a play, you mean?”
“Yes, like acting a part.”
Petite thought of the King’s applause, his approving smile. Had it meant nothing? “But why?”
“To fool his mother. That way, the Queen Mother won’t think he’s in love with Henriette. If he pretends to be courting one of her maids—you, as it happens—he can visit Henriette without suspicion. It was even Henriette’s idea. So that’s why she’s not been jealous.”
Petite started to speak, but could not. She was angry and heart-broken, both.
“I knew it was Henriette he loved,” Nicole went on, gloating. “I knew it all along.”
Petite had an urge to leave, to get out in the open air, to be with horses—creatures she could trust. That the King was not, in fact, interested in her did not surprise her. It hurt, yes—that she was shamed to admit—but her disillusion went deeper than that. The King, a married man, courted his sister-in-law. Worse, he and Henriette had contrived for him to pretend interest in her in order to fool his mother. That was not noble. That was not even gentlemanly. It was a base thing for any man to do—the more so for a king.
“I’ll have the money for you tonight,” she told Nicole, standing abruptly. She rushed from the room before bursting into irate tears.
THE ROYAL STABLE at Fontaine Beleau was a long, low structure constructed of stone and thick beams. A man in a frayed straw hat was filling pails from a well near the entrance. He turned to stare as Petite stomped by. On one side of the muddy courtyard was a shed for storing hay and beside it an enormous mound of soiled litter. A two-wheeled cart was piled high with horse dung. A man relieving himself against a wall turned away. Three horses, one a docked curtail, were tied to iron rings set into a stone wall beside a covered sand-bath. From somewhere, an ass brayed.
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