They dined in silence, cold, correct, polite, but she noticed with satisfaction that his eyes strayed repeatedly to her bosom, in spite of himself, as though he had no will to control his glance. A small muscle worked in the corner of his jaw, and he drummed his fingers absently on the table. He feigned indifference, but she knew he clutched his torn pride around him like a beggar in a tattered cloak. Her heart ached and she almost relented her cruelty; then Clothilde appeared, and he smiled dazzlingly at her, freezing Marielle’s heart once more. Tomorrow, she thought with malice, I shall twine flowers in my hair and rouge my lips! By le Bon Dieu! If need be I will prance naked before him to torment him!
Supper over, he cleared his throat, finding it difficult to speak, to look at her without seeing that tempting body.
“We have been invited to Court,” he said, his voice hoarse in his throat. “Next week Richelieu and Their Majesties leave Fontainebleau for the Louvre. We will join them there. And Jean-Auguste. I expect we shall stay until the end of the month, then return to Vilmorin for the harvest. There are servants aplenty at the palace; you will not need Louise as your personal maid. You may wish more elaborate gowns for Court—arrange with Clothilde for whatever you need. We will go by horseback to Vouvray, then travel by carrosse from Vouvray to Paris. The roads are bumpy, but it is a more pleasant ride than in the saddle, and you will have ample space for your trunks and boxes.”
Quite forgetting the chill that had hung between them, Marielle smiled in pleasure, her eyes sparkling.
“Paris! Oh André!” she laughed, then stopped, meeting his icy stare.
“I trust you will not embarrass me, Madame. Nor cease to remember that you are a married woman. You will find that the courtiers in Paris are perhaps more seductive even than Renard de Gravillac!” Whirling on his heel, he was gone, leaving her fuming and more bent on revenge than ever.
During the next few days they hardly saw one another. André was seeing to the vineyards, that they should be carefully tended in the weeks they would be away; what with fittings and packing, Marielle scarcely took time for a meal. She chose a pale green watered silk from England, and had it fashioned into a soft gown adorned with clusters of pink ribbons and embroidered rosebuds. A length of creamy taffeta became, in short order, a snug bodice and rustling skirt, sashed lavishly with Italian gold cloth, and bound in gold and silver braid. She packed half a dozen of her existing gowns, newly refurbished with the yards of ribbons that were the rage in Paris. There were wide lace collars and cuffs, brocaded shoes, some with high cork heels, fans to hold or hang at her waist, dainty bejeweled mirrors to suspend around her neck on fine gold chains. Clothilde’s eyes glittered with envy, but she had not failed to notice the new estrangement between them and she pressed her advantage. She herself saw to the preparation of André’s wardrobe, and she took every opportunity to seek him out and consult about this doublet, that pair of boots, complimenting him on his fine taste until he fairly glowed, making a big show of his pleasure at her interest. All this was not lost on Marielle, who seethed with jealousy and redoubled her efforts to torment and tantalize him. By the time they rode out to Vouvray, the trunks having been sent on ahead by wagon, war had virtually been declared. Locked in by pride, scarred and vulnerable from too many encounters, each sought only to hurt the other, denying the love that tugged at the heart and weakened resolve. At Vouvray they met Narbaux, who noted Marielle’s forced gaiety, André’s excessive politeness to his wife, and shook his head sadly, suddenly glad to be a bachelor.
The carrosse, a large, heavy coach with window glass and curtains, was bumpy and slow, compelling them to break up the journey with a night at a country inn where, much to both Marielle’s and André’s relief, Madame la Comtesse was forced to sleep in the same room with the innkeeper’s wife and two daughters, while the gentlemen shared a bed.
But Marielle could not long deny her natural disposition. As the miles dropped away and they neared Paris, her eyes began to glow in anticipation, and she fairly bubbled with enthusiasm, incapable of hiding her delight. Narbaux beamed, and even André could not maintain his black mood, catching fire from her joy, and looking forward to the first glimpse of Notre Dame’s spires as he had not for a very long time.
Since the day was early, they decided to drive around for a bit in a small carriage before settling into their quarters at the Louvre. Paris bustled with activity. More and more, under Louis and Richelieu, it was becoming not only the titular capital of France, but her very heart and soul. The air was filled with the sounds of hammers and saws as new buildings were constructed, and the older houses and churches, encased in lacy scaffolding, were being repaired and refurbished. They passed the Luxembourg Palace, finished barely five years before for Marie de Medici, and still so new it sparkled in the sun. Crossing the Pont Neuf to the Place Dauphine, André pointed out to Marielle the equestrian statue of Henry IV, the father of the present King, who had directed the building of the Place, and the elegant townhouses that surrounded the triangular park at the tip of the Île de la Cité. When Marielle exclaimed that she would like to live there, Jean-Auguste laughed and explained that this was no longer the most fashionable section of the city, and that only lesser government officials and aristocrats lived there. They passed through the old quarter of the city, the wheels of their carriage slopping through the mud and filth, twisting through dark, narrow streets that were ominous even in daylight and, as André explained, positively lethal and crawling with thieves and murderers at night. Used to the relative civility of La Forêt, Marielle was dismayed at the roughness of these streets and their people, where curses and shouts filled the air and every dark corner housed a gambling den or brothel. Harridans stood on street corners singing bawdy songs and offering their wares to the passersby while leering young boys, still in their teens, tendered the lowest forms of obscene literature to every nobleman who ventured into the quarter. At last the cobbled streets and narrow gabled houses were behind them, and they emerged once again into a newer section of the city. Before them was a lovely square, surrounded on all sides by magnificent townhouses, their red and white stone set off by clear blue slate roofs and tall majestic windows. Narbaux announced pompously to Marielle that this, the Place Royale, was the only place to live in Paris, except perhaps for the palaces, and she made an elaborate game of choosing which one she wished to purchase. Passing the Rue Saint-Honoré, where buildings were being razed to make way for the Cardinal’s new palace, they drew up at length to the Louvre, sprawled out beside the Seine. It was an imposing structure, a jumble of old and new. The large quadrangle, begun by Henry II and newly completed by Louis himself, surrounded an inner courtyard that had once held the turreted core of the old fortress. Here and there an old tower, a crumbling gate, a sturdy outbuilding stood as mute reminders of the old Louvre, when it had lain outside the walls of Paris, but the new was slowly obliterating the old. Parallel to the Seine ran the Grande Galerie of Henry IV, an imposing wing that stretched for nearly a quarter of a mile in length, almost reaching the Tuileries palace. Since the time of Henry, artists and craftsmen had been allowed to live on the lower floors of the Galerie, and with the unceasing building and repairing that went on their services were always in demand.
Marielle was dazzled by everything. The servants who led them to their apartments were clad in pale blue livery bound in gold braid, and seemed better dressed and well-fed than half the bourgeoisie of La Forêt. The corridors they passed through could have held her father’s comfortable cottage within their confines, with room for the kitchen garden besides! She marveled at their apartments: each bedchamber had its own sitting room and dressing closet; a large and opulent drawing room, hung with fine tapestries, served to join their two suites. She danced from room to room, exclaiming in delight at each wonder that met her eyes, chattering gaily to Jean-Auguste and André. But when the servants had retired, taking Narbaux to his own quarters, and she was alone with her husband, her joy evaporated and she retreated behind
a cold wall of silence, while André, his eyes an icy blue, withdrew to his own suite. In the presence of others they could laugh, enjoy themselves, be gay; alone together the pain and anger returned like an unwelcome guest to poison everything.
With the help of her maid, Marielle dressed slowly and carefully. Their Majesties would receive them in the Grand Salon; later there would be dancing and a late supper. She had chosen a dark blue silk gown with wide puffed sleeves and a deep slash in the front of the skirt that revealed a brilliant green satin petticoat. A delicate lace collar framed the low bodice, accenting the clarity of her own creamy skin. At her throat she placed the diamond and emerald necklace that André had given her, then told herself that she cared little if he were pleased or not. In spite of herself, she had to admire him as they made their way to the salon—he looked positively splendid. He wore a gold brocaded doublet, close-fitting and slightly widened at the shoulders, which served to emphasize the breadth of his chest. At neck and wrists he had a snowy lace collar and cuffs. His brocaded breeches ended just below the knees and were tied and bowed with ruby satin ribbons, which also adorned the low shoes he wore. A fine, bejeweled sword was buckled on about his waist. Marielle was conscious of the stares and whispers from the women as they passed, and could not suppress a feeling of pride at being by his side.
They were ushered into the Grand Salon, already crowded with members of the Court. It was a magnificent room, the walls covered with handsome frescoes that were framed and divided by carved flowers and fruits in high relief. The huge fresco on the ceiling, illuminated by blazing chandeliers and candelabra on marble tables, was an allegory that showed Louis in a gilded chariot drawn by prancing stallions. Above his head hovered winged seraphim playing upon stringed instruments and bearing a crown of roses for his head, while the Three Graces smiled benignly from an alcove. Marielle found it difficult to keep her eyes from straying to the ceiling, such was its splendor. A small recess off the Salon had been given over to card tables, and it was from there that the Queen, playing cards with the Keeper of the Seals, espied André and beckoned him with her delicate fingers to come forward. His hand beneath Marielle’s elbow, he steered a course through the crowded room, conscious of the stir that her beauty caused, and feeling himself torn with jealousy, bitterly aware that she was his in name only.
The Queen smiled warmly as they bowed, then patted the chair beside her, indicating that Marielle should sit.
“My dear,” she said in her sharp voice, strong with the accents of her native Spain. “So you are André’s missing wife! He chose well, I think. The whole Court is buzzing, you know. That he should have galloped off across half of France to find you! How very romantic! There are few husbands in this Court so in love with their wives they would bother to gallop even through the Bois de Boulogne, let alone the whole countryside!” She laughed wickedly as André fidgeted beside her. “For their mistresses, perhaps—” and here she smiled conspiratorially at Marielle. “You must beware those women who seem to dislike you without cause…” She beamed in delicious malice as André frowned, clearing his throat, and suddenly found something fascinating in the chandelier to hold his gaze. Aware at length that a cloud had passed before Marielle’s eyes, the Queen lowered her voice and spoke gently.
“You must forgive me my little games, my dear. We neglected wives are all filled with envy at your good fortune. May it be God’s will that your husband always loves you with the same devotion he holds for you now.”
Marielle bit her lip as sparkling tears caught in her silky lashes. The Queen patted her hand.
“Your sensitivity does you credit, ma petite. You are both very fortunate to have found one another. That wicked traitor Gravillac! I regret only that Louis did not have him beheaded! But true love conquers in the end, n’est-ce pas? Now, Monsieur le Comte, take your charming wife about the room. It will be great sport to see the faces of envy on the other men…and not a few of the women,” she added as a parting shot to André, who led Marielle away as quickly as he could.
Marielle reflected bitterly on what the Queen had said. The room must be full of his mistresses, she thought, yet I have lost his love because of one unwilling liaison. She was glad when Jean-Auguste joined them and said that His Majesty wished to meet Marielle. They spied Louis across the room, seated in a dim corner with a young man about the same age as the King. They were deep in conversation, Louis’s soulful gaze bent to his companion’s every word and gesture, while he held the young man’s hand tightly between his own two. André raised a brow quizzically to Narbaux.
“The latest?”
Jean-Auguste nodded. Marielle frowned, then her eyes widened in disbelief as she gazed from one to the other.
“But surely…you cannot mean…” she stammered. “But the Queen has carried children!” she blurted out. “Not to term, I know, but—” she gulped. “Were they not his Majesty’s?”
Narbaux laughed aloud at her frankness.
“Be reassured, country girl,” he exclaimed. “Paris is not that much more wicked than the Provinces! As far as is known—and the Court gossips are usually unimpeachable—the King has always been faithful to the marriage bed, as has Her Majesty. But the King is a sensitive man who craves tender companions, male and female, to talk to, to confide in. They play at the emotions of love, with stormy quarrels and tender reconciliations, all very intense…and platonic! When the innocent affair has run its course, the King’s ministers remind him once again that he has as yet no heir to the throne, and he dutifully fulfills his obligations to Queen and country!” Marielle shook her head. She would never understand the ways of the Court.
Louis dismissed his favorite as they approached, and rose to greet them. Marielle curtsied deeply, touched by the melancholy sadness in his eyes. Perhaps, she thought, a king needs affection more than others do, and she pitied him for being the butt of ugly gossip. When he spoke to her, she responded kindly, gently, wanting suddenly to be his friend. André caught the unexpected note in her voice, and looked at her with surprise and admiration, struck once again by her sensitivity and perception. Louis held Marielle’s hand and smiled benignly.
“What an exquisite creature you are, my dear! And since André has chosen you, I have no doubt that your heart is as kind and sweet as your face is lovely! You must dance in the Court ballet in two weeks. We will have you as Venus, I think! Not a word,” he admonished, as Marielle began to murmur a protest. “I shall send the dancing master to your chambers to teach you the steps and arrange for your costume.”
They chatted pleasantly for a while, Marielle gratified to see the esteem in which André was held by the King. After a time, musicians appeared, carrying lutes and viols, and the center of the floor was cleared for dancing. Marielle was enchanted. The dances she had learned at country fairs, done to the music of an itinerant fiddler, were nothing like the exciting galliards and courantes and sarabandes she now saw. She marveled as the brilliantly clad lords and ladies leapt and spun about the floor, in a whirl of bright satin and taffeta. More than once she had to refuse the young gallants who crowded around, begging for a dance, but her foot tapped gaily to the music and she longed to learn the steps they danced. At last, when the reeds piped out a slow, stately tune and a Spanish pavane was announced, she allowed herself to be dragged onto the dance floor by a persistent young man in scarlet satin, glancing apologetically at André as she did so. Her partner patiently explained the few simple steps of the dance, and in a few moments she was pacing majestically about the floor, the cynosure of every eye. After that she had hardly a moment alone with André, for the young blades, realizing the reason for her seeming reluctance, quarreled with one another over who would teach her the next dance. In a while, laughing gaily, her face flushed with pleasure, she was whirling merrily about the room as though she had danced the steps all her life. André danced with a few of the women, avoiding as best he might those of most recent intimacy, and played the part of the complacent husband, secure in the lov
e of his wife, but he ached with jealousy and desire, wondering which of her partners would catch her fancy. She was too beautiful, too flattered by all the attention, too innocent of the ways of the Court! It gave him little comfort to overhear a courtier comment to a companion that if that lovely thing were his wife, he would keep her at home in his bed, or heavy with child! It took all of André’s will-power to keep from smashing the man’s face with his fist, or dragging Marielle away to her room, and he smiled falsely at the other guests until his cheeks ached.
They withdrew to the dining salon for supper, where Marielle bravely sampled the snails and frogs’ legs that had become so fashionable in Paris—much to the amusement of the young man in red satin, who had scarcely left her side all evening. She felt giddy with the wine, buoyed by all the attention, quite intoxicated with her triumph. When at last the evening drew to a close and she and André made their way back to their apartments, she was still sparkling and gay, seeming unaware of the scowl that had replaced André’s smile as soon as they had left the salon behind them.
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