Before Versailles (10 page)

“Most charming, of course,” the gargoyle answered.

“But not as charming as those who wear it.” This was the gargoyle’s brother, Guy-Armand, the Count de Guiche.

If the gargoyle—Catherine was her given name—was lovely, her brother was magnificent. Their sophistication made their place at court gilded and glinting, always. Of an old and honorable family, both brother and sister carried themselves with a haughty certainty that reduced the maids of honor into speechless puddles. The other three thought that Guy was the absolute handsomest man at court. All four of them had stayed up one night not long ago arguing this. No, said Louise, the king is more striking. The truth was Guy and his majesty looked remarkably alike. They allowed the Viscount Nicolas, old as he was, in the running because he had a tender smile and wonderful laugh lines around his eyes and was still slim when most men his age dragged around bellies the size of tubs. Also, he was very, very rich. And the king’s captain of the guards, Péguilin, was so ugly it made him handsome, or this was their snob Madeleine’s opinion anyway. And of course, Monsieur himself with his snapping dark eyes and vivid smile was included. And after much giggling discussion, all but Louise selected Guy.

The handsomest man at court walked around the maids of honor as if they were fillies he was considering for purchase before he stopped in front of Louise. He has an eye on you, Fanny kept saying, but Louise thought that maybe it was Fanny who had an eye on him.

“I’ll dance with you tonight,” Guy said, looking down at her.

No, you won’t, thought Louise, but of course, she didn’t say it. She didn’t like this worldly, certain young man. There was something dangerous and flippant about him that distressed her, and she didn’t like the way he always seemed to be watching Madame. She kept her head down until he moved on, sauntering over to stand by his sister.

“Are we late? Tell me we’re not late.” Prince Philippe burst into the chamber, talking even as he entered the door. “His majesty will frown. Stupid Monsieur, he’ll say, you’ll be late to your own burial. Guiche, my friend, my discerning one, my valet couldn’t get my collar the way I wanted it. And I look puffy in this doublet. Marriage has made me fat. Tell me. I can bear the truth. Hello, darling—” He kissed Henriette on the mouth. Philippe had always been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, and right now his wife was his heart.

“Fair princess,” he said, nodding his head to Catherine, “you look beautiful as always,” but his destination was the single and large pier glass in this chamber, and he sighed when he stood before it and turned from side to side. “Horrible. I look horrible. Someone here tell me. Count, you’re my dearest friend. Don’t be kind. I can bear it.”

It was amusing—Fanny and Louise found the king’s brother witty and kinder than they’d expected—but it was also deadly serious. Fashion in this age was more flamboyant and beribboned and befrilled for a man than it was for a woman. No one dressed better, every square inch of himself embroidered or belaced, than the king. No one, that is, except Philippe, who often set some style his brother then copied and received the credit for.

Summoned, Guy stood behind his friend. He stared for a long time at Philippe’s reflection. No one spoke. The maids of honor were afraid to. Monsieur and the count were great friends. That was what Choisy had told Louise, and it was what she had seen for herself. Even when the count was rude, Monsieur seemed not to mind.

Finally, Guy touched at a single dark velvet patch Philippe wore on his cheek. “This would be—?”

“It’s a patch, and you know it. The Chevalier de Choisy came by, and one thing led to another, and it seemed like a good idea.” Philippe went over to Henriette, brows drawn together, anxious, and as trusting as he’d been with Guy. “Have I gone too far? Do you hate it, my love?”

Henriette kissed her husband’s mouth and then the patch, cut in the shape of a star. “I adore it and you, sir.”

How sweet they are together, thought Louise. Here, at least, was an example of the true love she envisioned. The prince idolized his princess. And the princess—Louise sighed to herself at the thought of Madame. It was all rapidly becoming complicated, but she hoped for the best.

“No more is needed,” Philippe said to Guy.

“Bring me Madame’s patch box,” Guy commanded.

The command was addressed to Louise, and she walked to the dressing table and brought back a beautiful box made of silver. It was the duty of a maid of honor to accompany, assist, and amuse. And fetch.

Guy looked through the small black shapes that were all the rage, worn on the face and kept there by mastic, and selected another star. He balanced its velvet side on a finger, then placed it on his cheek in approximately the same place as Philippe’s. Then he turned to face Henriette.

“Where’s my kiss?” he said.

The maids of honor held their breath. The count was disrespectful and unfortunately also very dashing, but if his dear friend’s deliberate flirting bothered him, Philippe didn’t show it. Henriette dropped her eyes, as if unable to meet the brash, unabashed admiration flung at her, but Louise could see that she was as flattered as she was flustered.

“I think we should all wear patches, stars for us and hearts for ladies,” said Guy.

“Yes,” Philippe exclaimed.

Henriette pointed to her maids of honor. “But they aren’t married.” An unmarried young woman of good family did not rouge or powder or patch until a ring was upon her finger.

“That makes it all the more amusing,” said Catherine, a slight smile on her face, as if Henriette were a child.

“I approve,” said Philippe, “and that’s all that need be said.” Then he began to supervise as one after another of them placed patches on their faces. He was in top form, garrulous and joking. He knew that the word among the young courtiers was that the place to be was Monsieur’s—where there was lively conversation, witty games, good food, lovely young women, and showy young gentlemen. Philippe had always had an eye for what would prove fashionable and what would excite the court’s attention.

When patches were on all faces, he stepped back and considered the group, his expression mock-serious, making several of the maids of honor giggle again. “Perfect,” he announced. “His majesty will be highly irritated that once more I’ve done something diverting and interesting.” He held out a hand to Henriette, who put hers atop it. “Just as I did by marrying you, my treasure. I’m sorry, but her majesty is dull, and apparently there’s nothing that can be done about it.”

“If you want to be on the king’s council, it’s comments like that one that will keep you from it,” said Guy.

Philippe frowned at one and all. “You did not hear a word I just said. Is that understood? That would likely be an excellent attribute to strengthen if you intend remaining in this household. You must pay me no mind because I say things I shouldn’t, especially when they’re true. Hypocrisy makes the world go round. Remember that, my angels.”

“Her majesty is very, very dear, and we love her very, very much,” said Henriette, clearly nervous at her husband’s lively, teasing indiscretion.

“Yes, she is. Yes, we do,” said Philippe, who was delighted that he’d done something that was going to annoy his brother. Someone among them would whisper tonight that Monsieur said her majesty was dull, and Philippe would of course deny it when Louis confronted him, but truth would out. Her majesty was dull, prayers and naps and embroidery, and Philippe and his wife were anything but. “Do you hear that, maidens? Her majesty is very kind, kinder than I’ve just been, and she is far, far from home and likely homesick.”

“We shock her,” said Guy.

Philippe looked over to his friend. “Explain yourself, count.”

“I have it on the best authority that she finds us frivolous.”

“Us?”

“Us, this court, the French in general.”

“Frivolous.” Philippe considered the queen’s accusation. “I’m afraid it’s true. And I, for one, intend to be as frivolous as possible tonight. I believe I’ve made a splendid beginning. Count,” he arched an eyebrow at Guy and made a serious face, “I trust you’ll sustain me in my attempts.”

Guy bowed, and there was a chorus of giggles from the maids of honor, even a low laugh from their dreaded Catherine.

Talk and laughter had traveled up through their windows as courtiers walked across the paving stones of a courtyard to a set of great red doors, open for the night to reveal a grand staircase that led to the ballroom. The evening was beginning.

“Let’s stand on baptismal gate and watch the courtiers enter the king’s courtyard,” suggested Henriette.

A colonnade on this story led to the ornate gatehouse built especially for Philippe’s father’s christening. Stone faces from ancient Rome spewed water into basins on each side of the outside entrance, and the gatehouse’s rooftop offered a lovely space in which to walk and look over all that transpired in the king’s courtyard.

Catherine wrinkled her nose. “They’ll see us watching. A little common, don’t you think?”

“Oh, let them see. What does it matter?” said Henriette. “We’re going to be talking and dancing with them in just a few moments.”

Louise and Fanny looked at each other. This was the first time they’d seen Madame contradict the gargoyle. Hurrah, thought Louise.

“I’m her slave. Her least wish is my command. Her every wish should certainly be yours,” said Philippe to Catherine.

It was a reprimand. Catherine’s expression went rigid for a moment, but she swept out onto the colonnade with the three others, all of them imperious and very beautiful in their youth and jewels and shining eyes. The maids of honor followed.

Will my husband defend my place to others? thought Louise. Does Madame appreciate how much she is loved?

“Did you see the way the Count de Guiche looked at Madame?” Fanny whispered.

Below, torches lit the courtyard. Above, there were already a few night stars in the sky. People were looking up, pointing at the new royal couple. There was bowing and laughter and waves. One hand on the iron railing of the colonnade, Henriette waved back.

“I’d die if he looked that way at me,” said Fanny.

Louise didn’t answer. There was no point in encouraging Fanny, to whom gossip was second nature. And it wasn’t his friend, the Count de Guiche, that Monsieur needed to worry about, anyway. Louise had eyes in her head. It was his own brother, the king.

Chapter 4

HE BALLROOM WAS ONE OF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL CHAMBERS
in the palace, almost one hundred feet long, light-colored wood highlighted with gilt paint and frescoes, enormous bays, chandeliers whose candles shone like hundreds of twinkling diamonds hanging down inside each. The woods were made a lovely golden honey color by the candlelight, and everywhere were the intricate initials of a former king and his wife and his mistress; everywhere was a carved crescent moon symbolizing that king’s motto: until the crescent has filled the whole dish, symbolizing majesty filling the whole world with the glory of his name. The king who would fill this whole world with the glory of his name hadn’t arrived yet. From the musicians’ gallery, the sound of violin and flute and hautbois spilled down over courtiers like silk ribbons.

Louise had a moment’s hesitation as she stood on the door’s threshold, a slight pulling back into herself, as always she did at the beginning of any event, but the entrance of Monsieur and Madame before her had created such a stir that she really had only to glide along behind it. She smiled and nodded and kept herself near Fanny, who thrived on events like this, was never at a loss for words. She herself would be fine in a few more moments, particularly after she drank a goblet of wine. Glancing around, she saw her cousin Choisy and waved. He made his way over, grabbing a goblet for her as he did so. He nodded to Fanny as he handed Louise her wine.

“That cloth flower doesn’t change the fact that I’ve seen this gown before, but the pearl earrings are perfect for your complexion. And this,” Choisy touched the knot of ribbons, “is quite original. The queen’s ladies will be biting the insides of their mouths not to complain. As for this,” he put a forefinger on the patch beside her mouth, “it’s very naughty. The old cats will disapprove, but I love it.” He wore several patches; one in particular was quite unusual, a coach pulled by horses. It covered most of his right cheekbone. There were no earrings tonight, and his hair hung to his shoulders like any other man’s.