She danced into their drawing room, still humming a snatch of melody, and was stopped by André’s voice behind her.
“A moment,” he said coldly. She turned to face his icy blue eyes, angry that he should spoil her happy mood. Advancing toward her, he stared pointedly at her décolletage. “You will oblige me, Madame, by covering your bosom when you appear in public!” Surprised and annoyed, she looked down at her bodice, which seemed no lower than that worn by most of the women.
“There is nothing improper in my costume, Monsieur!” She felt her anger rising. “I noted that the other ladies wore their gowns as low! Or is it only your old mistresses whose bosoms you choose to admire?”
His eyes narrowed in fury and he spoke through clenched teeth.
“The ladies who show their bosoms shamelessly are willing to show a good deal more in private than you are prepared to give! Or is your wide-eyed innocence merely a game you play? Do you fancy snaring a duke or prince with your wiles?”
“Do you think I could not?” she challenged, stung by his cruelty. She stamped her foot angrily. “If I chose to, I could have as many lovers in this Court as you have had mistresses!”
At that he flinched and his face turned pale. A hard light glittered in his eyes, but he quickly recovered himself and shrugged.
“Then all of Paris would know what I—and the Marquis de Gravillac—know—that the Comtesse du Crillon is a whore!”
With a vehement cry she raised her hand to strike him full in the face, but he caught her wrist and pulled her cruelly toward him, while she struggled vainly to loose her hand.
“Have a care, Madame,” he said, his voice low and ominous. “I have never beaten a woman, but I must confess that the thought of thrashing you like a willful and errant child is suddenly very tempting! Pray do not force me to it!”
Her glance wavering under his withering stare, she averted her eyes and wrenched her hand from his grasp. Fleeing to the safety of her own sitting room, she slammed the door behind her and locked it fast, then leaned her forehead against its heavy panels, weeping bitterly. In spite of everything, she could not even hate him; she could only lock her heart against him and the pain he brought her, as she had barred the door.
Chapter Sixteen
The days rushed past in a whirl of dances and fêtes, the nights filled with music and fireworks that brought cries of pleasure from Marielle. True to his word, Louis had sent the dancing master to her apartments, who trailed in his wake musicians and seamstresses and drapers with heavy bolts of fabric. They argued and cut and stitched while the rhythms were tapped out and Marielle sought to remember the complicated patterns of the ballet. The Court picnicked and rode in the Bois de Boulogne, and the great nobles jousted and raced and held fencing matches in the Place Royale while the rest of the assemblage gambled on the winners. André and Marielle spent a morning in the company of Richelieu, seated comfortably in his apartments and surrounded by the cats he loved. The Cardinal insisted that Marielle take a steaming cup of chocolate, a drink that the Spaniards had recently brought back from their outpost in Mexico. Marielle found it rich and delicious, and sat sipping contentedly while the Cardinal, his eyes glittering with intelligence, discussed the Languedoc campaign with André. Trained as a soldier in his youth, Richelieu still gloried in a well-fought battle and, on more than one occasion, had led the King’s army himself.
One afternoon, André and Jean-Auguste took Marielle to the theater at the Place Dauphine, though André was reluctant to do so. He warned her she would not find it to her liking, and insisted that she be masked, as was proper for a lady of the nobility. Marielle was appalled by what she saw. It was a silly comedy, involving faithless husbands and wives and lovers, but the language and gestures were crude, the sexual innuendos so coarse and blatant, that she sat in a stew of embarrassment, glad of the mask that hid her face, painfully aware of André’s mocking eyes on her.
Most of the time she was surrounded by admirers who praised her beauty and complimented her wit and intelligence. She found it exciting and not a little overwhelming. She had not been raised with vanity about her looks, and she found the sudden attentions flattering and surprising. More than once she would catch sight of herself in a glass and laugh in innocent delight, like a child who has found a new toy. She knew her following of devoted courtiers annoyed André, though he tried to hide it, but it was all harmless fun and it pleased her.
Besides, she was still upset at him for his meanness and bad temper; it was refreshing to be surrounded by young men who smiled and laughed and asked nothing in return. She had not forgotten, however, the look in André’s eyes that first night in the Palace. For the first time, she was a little afraid of him, aware that there was a dark corner of his soul that she had come perilously close to exposing, something that seemed to go beyond his hatred and jealousy of Gravillac. She was careful to raise the necklines of her gowns to a more demure level, and when she retired to her rooms at night, though she felt an unfamiliar stirring of uneasiness, she did not lock the door, sensing that it would be for André a challenge he could not long ignore.
For his part, André was aware of the unlocked door, though it might just as well have been a barred gate, for it represented that which no longer seemed attainable. By day he watched Marielle with her admirers, his heart full of jealousy and longing; at night, sleepless, he paced his rooms, consumed by a burning hunger that tore at his vitals, a desire for her that drove him mad. He no longer cared about Gravillac; he yearned for her with a desperation that drove out all thoughts of the past. The thought of his own ugliness and cruelty tormented him. If there had been a chance of wooing her away from the memory of Gravillac he had destroyed it with his jealousy; even when he meant to be kind, sharp and hateful words sprang to his lips and he ended by hurting her. He wished to God they had never come to Paris.
In the rue Saint-Thomas du Louvre, just a few steps from the palace, was the Hôtel de Rambouillet, the most fashionable gathering place in all of Paris. It was here that, every Thursday, Madame de Rambouillet welcomed to her home the noblest aristocrats of the realm, as well as men of letters, poets and scholars. Here, in a large and handsome salon hung with panels of blue velvet bordered with silver and gold, she presided over discussions where wit and intellect held sway, where a man was judged not only by what he said but by the beauty and elegance of his words. A charming and serene woman, Madame insisted on good manners, good taste, courtesy, and imposed her will with such gaiety and wit that the Court shone with a civility heretofore unknown in any capital of Europe.
Marielle found the Salon exciting and stimulating. There were scientists who had known her father, men who could discourse on medicine and philosophy and literature. She listened as lawyers argued points of law and, with a pang of remembrance for Gervais, found herself disputing them with arguments she had heard at home in La Forêt. She basked in the admiration of the intellectuals, finding it a headier wine than the praise her beauty elicited, and was suddenly glad that her father had insisted on educating her beyond the level that was expected for most women.
Madame de Rambouillet, who was in frail health, reclined on a daybed set in a small alcove, and held forth with André and several other gentlemen, elaborating on the latest Court follies with charm and wit. But she was a shrewd and intelligent woman, and she noted with some interest that André’s eyes strayed across the room whenever a burst of laughter came from the men surrounding Marielle.
“Tell me, Comte du Crillon,” she said suddenly, “have you been to the theater this week?”
André nodded. “I found the play harmless enough, but I fear my wife did not find it to her liking.”
A young nobleman leaned forward seriously. “Why should any wife enjoy a play that exposes a woman’s inherent susceptibility to the blandishments of other men? It is a cruel attack on every woman’s honor and integrity, and suggests that no marriage is safe! A husband would do better to keep his wife at home and free from the temptat
ions and wicked ideas that such plays promote!”
“Nonsense!” laughed Madame. “What has theater to do with it? A woman is more clever than you might suppose! Is there any man alive who can be truly sure of his wife’s fidelity? He must simply trust in her faithfulness and virtue. Is it not so, André?” she asked pointedly, as another peal of laughter snapped André’s head around. He turned back at once, and smiled disarmingly at Madame de Rambouillet’s piercing glance.
“And who can guess?” he said casually. “What transpires in the salon does not necessarily reflect what happens in the bedchamber.”
“There you have it!” exclaimed a red-faced gentleman with a large moustache. “A man can but mount and ride his own wife often enough to keep her happily tethered in the stable!”
“Not to mention foals in the barn,” said another, slyly, and the whole company burst into laughter. Drawn by the merriment, several other guests joined the group, Marielle among them.
“We are discussing marital fidelity,” André said sourly, and watched the smile freeze on her lips.
Madame de Rambouillet beamed at both of them, but her eyes were thoughtful. “How fortunate to be newly-wed as you are. Love is still fresh and unspoiled, and hearts are yet to be broken.”
The red-faced man guffawed. “There were more than a few broken hearts at Versailles when the ladies heard that Monsieur le Comte had taken a wife!”
“And a score of relieved husbands!” laughed another guest.
Marielle’s eyes flashed. “It would seem that infidelity is only a husband’s prerogative!”
“Perhaps so, to judge by the sighs that followed Comte du Crillon in the Grand Salon last evening!” This remark was accompanied by light-hearted laughter, while André squirmed and Marielle glowered.
“If his wife frowns at him like that, mayhap the other women think he is still available!”
“Come!” said Madame firmly, glancing from André to Marielle. “You cannot let such unkind remarks stand unchallenged. You must cast out the lie!” She turned to André. “Kiss her!” she ordered.
André gaped as the courtiers grinned and Marielle turned away uncertainly. Several of the men chuckled among themselves, joking and nudging one another in the ribs. But Madame de Rambouillet would not be deterred. She nodded her head with finality.
“You must kiss your wife and show us that we are all old women who have forgotten what love is!”
Amid much laughter and snickering, André reluctantly approached Marielle and slipped his arms gently about her waist. She smiled uneasily up at him, then closed her eyes as he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. He felt the tenseness of her body, her rigid mouth; then, without warning, she melted in his arms, her tender curves pressing against him, her lips parting in warm surrender. The laughter behind them died into an embarrassed silence as she swayed against him, her soft arms encircling his neck. He felt the room shake beneath his feet, and the blood pounded in his temples. At last, he disengaged her arms and held her away from him, searching her face and the soft green eyes that sparkled now with trembling tears. He laughed unsteadily at Madame de Rambouillet and bowed, unwilling to risk speech. She smiled gently, a wise and knowing grin that lit up her handsome face.
“You must forgive an old romantic, André. There is nothing so charming, I think, as two young people in love. We can only wish you continued happiness and joy!”
“And many children!” exclaimed red-face, slapping André on the back, as Marielle turned away, flustered. Seeing this, Madame de Rambouillet put her hand lightly on the arm of the serious young man.
“My dear Baron,” she said, “have you read Malherbe’s last poems? What a great loss France has suffered!” Deftly she guided the company into the new topic, and smiled benignly as André and Marielle slipped away.
It was only a short distance to the palace and the sun had not yet set; they walked slowly, lost in thought. Marielle kept her eyes down, but André stared fixedly at her, as though he would read her profile, his own face a battleground of doubt and confusion and bewilderment. Several times he seemed about to speak and then thought better of it. Finally he blurted out the words, searching her face to gauge their effect.
“I must compliment you, my dear, on your performance. You played the part of the loving wife to perfection!”
Her eyes flew to his face, and he saw the flash of pain in their green depths before she turned away.
“Please, André,” she said softly, “don’t be cruel.”
They made their way to their apartments in silence, André frowning and deep in thought. As Marielle turned to enter her sitting room, he held her arm and pulled her back, slipping one hand about her waist, and tilting her chin up with the other hand until he was staring directly into her eyes. He seemed to be examining her, studying her face, but his own eyes were cold and unreadable. He kissed her then, a long, searching kiss that left her trembling and breathless, her defenses down; but when at last he pulled his lips away his expression had not changed. Deliberately, as though he were seeking answers, he cupped her heaving breast in one strong hand, a gesture that was neither rough nor gentle, only calculating, exploratory. She gasped and flinched under his firm grasp, so brazenly carnal, and he immediately released her and stepped back, his face hard.
“It would seem, Madame, that in spite of yourself you enjoy my kisses.” He laughed mirthlessly, a mocking smile on his face. “But you are equally unwilling to pay for them!” His eyes raked her body and she shrank back, filled with dread. “No matter,” he growled. “I shall collect the debt one of these days!” And turning on his heel, he strode into his rooms, leaving her pale-lipped and shaken.
Chapter Seventeen
Marielle frowned worriedly into the mirror. André would be furious with her costume! The dancing master had insisted that Venus always appeared partly draped in her representations, and he had designed a costume in which her chemise had been fashioned of the most transparent silk gauze, so that the rosy pink of her nipples was clearly visible through the delicate fabric. To compound the indecency of the outfit, the bodice of the taffeta gown itself had been cut so low that it did not cover her bosom at all, nor the revealing chemise. She had tried it on in the privacy of her apartments, then changed her clothes and stormed out in a fury, stubbornly shaking her head and insisting to the dancing master that she would not wear such a costume! He had fumed and torn his hair, but eventually they had compromised. The chemise remained, but the offending bodice had been raised to where it covered the tips of her breasts; in compensation for this relative modesty, however, the gown’s taffeta sleeves had been eliminated, revealing the sheer chemise beneath, and making her appear almost scandalously bare from wrist to shoulder. It was too late to make any changes now; she could only hope that the other costumes were of the same mode, if only to placate André.
Her maid entered with a small oaken chest, delicately carved. Within, Marielle found a dainty nosegay of pale yellow roses and a brief note. Would the fair Venus wear the favor tonight of one whose heart worshipped at her shrine? It was signed by the Duc de Saint-Denis, the young gallant in red satin who had paid court to her that first evening, and had been one of her most attentive admirers. Marielle smiled fondly. He was a pleasant young man, charming, boyish, sensitive—he had kissed her hand only this morning, then looked hurt when she scolded him for his presumption. How kind of him to send her flowers. Le Bon Dieu knew it would not have occurred to André, though her nervousness about the ballet should have been apparent to him! The yellow roses might be just what she needed. She slipped the nosegay into the cleavage between her breasts and was gratified to see that they helped to screen the voluptuous swell of her bosom. Throwing a silken shawl about her shoulders (she did not wish to catch André’s eye before the performance!), she hurried to the large gallery in which the ballet would be held.
It was a huge room, some forty-five feet high, with massive stone arches that ran along the two long sides of the chamber
. Against the arches had been placed a series of tiers that served as seating for the spectators. Behind the arches was a mezzanine with balconies that looked out upon the hall, and at the highest level of the chamber, traversing three walls, was a large gallery with a stone railing. Since the performance was expected to last at least four hours, smaller rooms adjoining the gallery and mezzanine had been set up to feed the guests who wandered from grandstand to balcony to dining salon in the course of the evening. At one end of the hall was a small dais upon which the King and his party would be seated, and toward which the performance would be directed. At the opposite end of the hall, which served as the backdrop for the ballet, hung a large square of canvas, painted to represent a placid ocean against a vivid blue sky. Behind the canvas were several small antechambers where the rest of the scenery was kept, along with such mechanical devices as were necessary to bring in the various characters on clouds or sky-borne chariots. Since the performers were all members of the Court, high-born lords and ladies, a large antechamber had been set aside with all that was required to see to their comforts during those portions of the ballet in which they were not involved.
By the time André and Jean-Auguste arrived in the hall, the grandstand was almost full, and they hurried up a marble staircase and jostled their way to the front of the mezzanine balcony. Below, Le Vingt-quatre Violons du Roy, the grand Court ensemble of twenty-four violins that had played at every fête for many years, was already entertaining the early arrivals with a lively air, while musicians carrying lutes and guitars, oboes and flutes, hurried in and took their places in a small alcove to one side of the backdrop.
Amid a flurry of bowing and murmurs, the Royal party appeared, Louis and Anne, Richelieu and Marie de Medici, the Queen Mother. It was a rare evening—they seemed all to be on good terms with one another—and as soon as they were settled in their places, the King gave the signal for the ballet to begin.
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