“I remember you,” Louis said and paused in front of the enchantingly beautiful young woman. With a jeweled finger, he tilted her face up that he might look at her more closely. “You were with the dauphine last fall, when she aided the injured hunter.”
Honneure could not speak. Somehow she managed to nod.
Her hair was the color of summer honey, her eyes the color of a summer storm. She reminded him of someone from long, long ago, but he could not place the memory. And it was a shame, because it was a pleasant one.
“Do you know how to dance?” the king inquired abruptly.
“I … I know a few steps.”
“Good. I want you to dance for me. Next Wednesday at a fête celebrating the New Year.” The king turned to go, then hesitated. He stared at Honneure for a long moment and smiled. “I will look forward to it.”
Philippe stroked the elegantly curved neck, then ran his hand over the mare’s withers and down her well-muscled shoulder. “You’re a beauty,” he murmured softly. “Good girl. My good girl.”
The mare pushed her muzzle into Philippe’s side. Her eyelids grew heavy as he massaged the muscles of her back. But Philippe felt her tense beneath his touch, watched her head go up and ears prick forward. She whickered.
The huge stables were always full of people coming and going. The mare must have sensed someone familiar. Philippe’s heart beat just a little faster.
Heads turned to see a young woman in the dauphine’s livery hurrying along the clean, wide aisle. But she seemed to notice no one, intent only on her destination. By the time she reached the stalls where the Lipizzans were kept, Philippe had opened the mare’s door. Honneure practically fell into his arms.
“Philippe!”
“Honneure … what is it? What’s wrong?”
She merely clung to him.
Mindful of the many curious stares, Philippe gently eased Honneure into the stall and closed the door. He held her until the grip of her arms loosened. She took a step back and looked up at him.
“Something terrible has happened, Philippe. I must talk to you.”
Her eyes were wide and frightened. Even the mare sensed her tension and moved her feet nervously.
“Come, let me take you to my room. We can speak privately.”
Honneure hesitated only a moment, necessity winning over propriety. She nodded and allowed Philippe to guide her to his small room near the animals that were his responsibility.
Honneure’s heart squeezed as she glanced about the tiny, windowless, sparsely furnished space. There was a narrow cot, a small trunk for personal possessions he had brought with him from Chenonceau, a peg in the wall for hanging clothes, and a diminutive table pushed into the corner. Letters were spread across its scarred surface, and Honneure recognized the handwriting. Two short steps carried her across the room, and she gazed down at the familiar, beloved scrawl.
“Oh, Philippe, I miss them so.” She felt Philippe come up behind her, put his strong hands on her upper arms as if to brace her. “I’ve saved all my letters, too. And the ones from Madame Dupin.” Honneure touched the parchment pages with the tip of her index finger, then turned within Philippe’s grasp and gazed up at him. “She’s so witty, so clever, isn’t she? And Maman writes as if she was born to it. Reading her letters I’m almost back at Chenonceau. I can see and hear the river, smell the fragrant air …”
Honneure’s throat constricted, and tears rushed to her eyes. When they spilled over Philippe brushed them away.
“Honneure, what’s wrong?”
But she couldn’t speak. She shook her head.
Seeing the fear in her eyes, the sadness, and feeling helpless to aid her was more than Philippe could bear. Taking her face in his hands, he kissed away the tears that continued to fall, then her eyelids, her chin and cheeks. Eventually his lips found hers.
Honneure could not help but respond. His very presence was enough to make the ground move beneath her feet. When he touched her the world went away.
But she could not let herself forget, not now, not this time. With all the willpower she possessed, Honneure pushed Philippe away. With her hands pressed to his chest, as if to hold him at bay, she swallowed her tears and forced herself to return to the reason she had come.
“Philippe, I … I was with the dauphine today when she received the Court. The … king …” Honneure had to swallow again. “The king took notice of me. He ordered me to a gala on Wednesday. He … he’s ordered me to dance for him.”
Philippe felt himself grow cold. With the king’s notorious reputation, the invitation was certainly not an innocent one.
“Philippe, what am I going to do? You must help me.”
The dread in her voice tore at his heart. “The first thing you must do,” he said in a deliberately even tone, “is take a deep breath and try to be calm. Tell me everything from the beginning.”
Honneure complied, including the incident at Fontainebleau.
“Honneure, why didn’t you tell me before?”
“It didn’t seem important before.”
It was important now, however. The king had seen and taken notice of her twice. He had ordered her to appear before him again. And it was particularly significant because he was flaunting his interest in public, in the face of his mistress. Philippe could not doubt the seriousness of the situation. Neither did he want to share the depth of his concern with Honneure.
“Philippe, please, what are we going to do?”
“There is only one thing to do at the moment.” Philippe smoothed back the short, fine curling hairs that wisped about Honneure’s forehead. “We must not anticipate the worst. We have to take each day and live it and deal with a problem if … if … it arises.”
Honneure looked deeply into Philippe’s eyes. She saw her love reflected in them and returned. She heard the sagacity of his words and tried to hang on to it.
Yet when her thoughts leapt ahead and her imagination carried her back into the king’s presence, the fear returned. She laid her head against Philippe’s breast and closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Philippe,” she said in a small voice. “I’m so frightened. I can’t help it. What if … ?”
“Don’t say it.” Taking Honneure’s arms, Philippe gave her a little shake and forced her to look him in the eye. “Don’t even say the words. Nothing has happened, and we’re not going to act as if it has, or might. If you must think ahead, think about how beautiful you will look and how gracefully you’ll dance … because you do. Think of how you will impress the Court and please the dauphine. And how, when it’s over, life will go back to just exactly the way it was.”
Was he simply trying to allay her fears, or did he truly believe his words? Unblinking, Honneure stared at Philippe and saw only his faith in her and his love. She wanted to believe him, had to believe him.
But suddenly all she could think of were her musings from only a few hours earlier, when she had counted her blessings and considered herself the luckiest woman alive. She wanted Philippe to tell her that nothing would change, that she would go on being blessed and happy. And then she recalled the night years before when she had asked him to promise the same thing.
All at once Honneure felt very heavy, as if the weight and wisdom of a hundred lifetimes had fallen on her shoulders.
“Sometimes things change for the better,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “Sometimes they change for the worse. But change they will; they must. It is the nature of the world. Just promise me one thing, Philippe, please. Promise me you will always love me. Tell me that will never change.”
Philippe shook his head, setting long, dark curls astir against his shoulders. “No, Honneure,” he said solemnly. “That will never change. That is the one promise I can make that I know will never be broken. I love you. I love you with all my heart and for all time.”
“As I love you,” she whispered and laid her head once more against his breast until she could hear the beating of his heart.
&
nbsp; It was the one true thing she could hold on to.
Chapter Fifteen
“It is time, Majesty.”
The king looked up with bleary eyes at the three men surrounding him, the most powerful ministers of his cabinet. Was it Chancellor de Maupeou who had spoken? The finance minister perhaps, Terray? Or had it been D’Aiguillon?
“Did you say something, Emmanuel?” Louis turned slowly in the foreign minister’s direction.
The three men exchanged glances as the king emptied his goblet and a footman instantly refilled it.
“It was I who spoke, Majesty,” Terray repeated. “The gala … you recall. All the guests have arrived. They merely await Your Royal Highness.”
“Let them wait. This is the third one this week. Am I not allowed a little time to myself?”
Meaningful looks were traded among the trio once again. D’Aiguillon cleared his throat.
“But this one is special, Majesty. It’s the one you designated as the official New Year’s celebration.”
“Ah, yes.” The king lifted the goblet to his lips and then set it on a low, handsomely painted table. “We gather tonight in the Hall of Mirrors. People say it’s the most beautiful room in the palace.”
“And indeed it is, Majesty,” Terray quickly said.
“Yet barely a hundred years ago it was just a gallery connecting the King’s Apartments with the Queen’s,” Louis continued as if he had not heard his minister. “And until only a few years ago who were you, the three of you?”
The king retrieved his goblet and emptied it. He waved away the footman with the crystal decanter and let his gaze rest on first one minister, then another. He enjoyed their expressions of discomfiture.
“Who were you, after all, until my mistress persuaded me that you would be invaluable to me in helping to shape the nation’s policies? You all owe your positions to a former prostitute. You know that, don’t you? Do you want to know something else?”
All three men shuffled, but no one spoke.
“The Court refers to you as the three yellow men.” Louis chuckled deep in his chest. “You do have rather bilious complexions. I don’t know what the comtesse sees in you. Particularly you, D’Aiguillon.”
The duke could not hold the king’s gaze. The other two ministers looked away, as if to disassociate themselves from him. It was common knowledge he was no stranger in the comtesse’s bed. But it was also highly unusual to refer to such matters so forthrightly. The king was in a strange and unpredictable mood, and it made the Duc D’Aiguillon extremely apprehensive. Once again the duke cleared his throat as if in preparation to speak, but Louis raised a hand to silence him.
“Denials bore me.” He picked up his goblet, studied its empty depths, and quirked a single brow.
The footman moved with alacrity.
The king raised his glass. “To the relief of boredom,” he said to no one in particular and drained his glass. He set it sharply on the table and rose unsteadily to his feet.
His ministers moved swiftly to his side.
“I doubt Your Majesty will be bored this evening,” Terray said in a currying tone as the men moved toward the door. “The Hall is positively resplendent. Your Majesty’s choice was an excellent one.”
Chancellor de Maupeou, who had thus far remained silent, smiled thinly and touched the king’s sleeve. “Do not forget, Majesty, that tonight is the night you asked that pretty young woman to dance for you.”
Louis halted, swaying slightly, and furrowed his brow in thought.
“The girl with the dogs,” de Maupeou prompted. “The pretty little thing with the unusual eyes.”
“Unusual eyes,” Louis repeated. “Yes. Yes, I do remember. Of course.”
The three men sighed almost in unison as the king smiled.
“Perhaps the evening will not be as wasted as I feared,” Louis mumbled as if to himself. “Yes, I remember …”
A thousand candles blazed the length of the long hall. They burned from a dozen chandeliers suspended from a vaulted ceiling, its painted segments depicting events from Louis XIV’s illustrious reign. They shone from smaller chandeliers perched atop freestanding gilded sculptures of cherubs and classical figures. Dozens of them stood across from each other in long, golden lines, stretching the distance of the elongated chamber. Between each gilded figure on one side of the room stood tall, arched mirrors, reflecting and multiplying the flickering lights. Opposing each mirror across the parquet floor stood a tall, arched window. Beyond the segmented glass panes, snowflakes swirled and danced in and out of the projected candlelight.
At one end of the vast and stunning room, a chamber orchestra patiently awaited its cue. The low babble of a hundred voices wove in and out of the susurration of silk and satin skirts. Crystal beads, gold and silver, glittered on velvet coats of every hue. Precious jewels at ears and throats sparkled with lights from their own inner fires. Laughter and champagne bubbled on pink-tinted lips.
The royal family mingled with the most favored courtiers, the Court’s elite. Having few friends yet among the Court denizens, Antoinette was content to hover at her husband’s side. They moved through the crowd together, nodding and smiling, Louis dropping a few well-chosen words here and there. The princess saw her favorite brother-in-law, Provence, with his homely but adoring wife. The king’s sisters were nowhere to be seen, but Antoinette was not surprised. They shunned any function which du Barry might attend.
The dauphine cast a quick glance about her, but did not see the comtesse. Could it be, in light of the latest palace rumor, that she would not attend the night’s celebration? A familiar unpleasantness returned to the pit of Antoinette’s stomach.
Poor Honneure. The dauphine felt every bit of her fear and distress. It was a terrible situation.
All noise abruptly ceased, and all eyes turned to the head of the room. A footman in gilded livery announced the arrival of King Louis XV, sovereign of all France. Gentlemen bowed; ladies curtsied. The king, cheeks flushed and eyes reddened, took his place in an elaborately carved gilt and velvet chair. One of the ministers attending him gave a discreet signal, and the music commenced. Antoinette turned away.
He was her husband’s grandfather and her king. But he was also a dissipated old man. His vices were legendary. He hardly made any pretense of running the country anymore, but seemed intent instead on distracting himself from the one thing he had in common with his neglected subjects—mortality. His life had become an endless round of parties and merriment and sexual peccadilloes. His mistress, when she was not busy having her sycophants appointed to positions of power, spent her time inventing new ways to rekindle the king’s waning interest. And still he cast his greedy and roving eye about for younger and more tender flesh.
“Is something wrong, Antoinette?”
She felt her heart squeeze as Louis covered the hand she had linked through his arm. She looked up at him with as much of a smile as she was able to muster.
“Nothing is wrong, my dear husband. I … I’m merely a little tired, and the dancing hasn’t even begun yet.”
“The dancing.” Louis grunted and absently patted the back of his wife’s hand. “The only dancing anyone cares about tonight is the dance your servant will be doing for the king.”
“Oh, Louis.” Antoinette looked up at her husband with a plea in her wide blue eyes. “Please tell me this isn’t going to end as I fear.”
“If your fear is for the girl’s virtue, then your fear is not misplaced. And there is nothing you, nor I, nor anyone can do.”
Antoinette shut her eyes. She had tried to tell herself and assure Honneure that it was simply a dance, a diversion for the king. When it was over and she had gone her way, he would forget about her.
But it was not to be. It had been naive of her to think otherwise.
“What … what will happen, Louis?” Antoinette whispered. “What will become of her?”
“She will be ordered to the lodge in the deer park, no doubt,” he replied,
disapproval rampant in his tone. “She will become just another one of many.”
“But what about the man who loves her? What about her life?”
The question was never answered, and a warning glance from her husband precluded any others. Curious ears were beginning to turn in their direction.
And the signal had been given for the formal dancing to commence.
Earlier the wind had been fitful, but now it roared in earnest. The walls of the great stone stable seemed to shudder as another icy blast tore at its very foundations. Inside the vast building, however, the heat was almost stifling. The royal horses were as pampered as their masters and mistresses, and no expense was spared to keep them safe from winter’s rigors. It was almost more than Philippe could bear.
His endlessly pacing in the barn aisle in front of the Lipizzans’ stalls had raised his already overheated body temperature. Sweat prickled in his armpits and at the small of his back. But it was the least of Philippe’s worries.
Tonight was the night. Even now, this moment, she might be dancing before the king. Even now, fate might be conspiring against them.
For, despite his words, Philippe had no illusions about the seriousness of the situation. The king did not idly amuse himself. He was interested in Honneure. And if he wanted her, he would have her.
In spite of the stable’s warmth, a chill raised the hairs on the backs of Philippe’s arms. And something deeper, darker, far more sinister gnawed at his insides. He raised his hands to his temples and rubbed the flesh there as if aiding the circulation might help to restore memory. What was it Honneure had told him?
It was so long ago. They had been children still, she twelve, perhaps, and he fourteen. They had become fast friends by then, confidants. And she had shared something with him on a day very much like this one.
It had been cold, with blowing snow. Their parents had been elsewhere in the château. He and Honneure had been sitting in the kitchen at the old, scarred table in front of the hearth. Tears had come to her eyes. It had been an important date, an anniversary of some kind … The date of her mother’s death! He remembered now.
By Honor Bound Page 16