Before Versailles (44 page)

Henriette laughed, secretly delighted. “Walk me over to Monsieur. Now tell me why not? Miss de Pon is lovely.”

“Yes.”

“Did she let you kiss her?” She cut her eyes toward Louis and then away. “I can’t stand it if you kiss them, Louis.”

“I didn’t want to, and it wasn’t pleasant.” A lie. It was pleasant, but it hadn’t any meaning; didn’t she understand his yearning for something deep, something splendid, something grand and significant? How long did she expect him to stay on the leash she’d created?

They walked to Philippe, standing with his friends. “Monsieur,” Louis twirled Henriette toward her husband, “I reluctantly bring you your beautiful wife, as ordered by her.”

Philippe was silent. He felt sometimes as if he were being pulled to pieces. Your wife is unfaithful, the Chevalier de Lorraine said. Guy swore she wasn’t. Louis taunts you, he said. Don’t allow it.

“Remind your friends,” said Louis without looking at Guy, “that frowns are a discourtesy in this court.” He walked away.

“That remark was for you.” Henriette tapped Guy sharply again on the arm with her fan. He took the fan from her and cracked it in pieces. Lorraine laughed.

“How dare you! Monsieur, I command you to stop being friends with this boor who calls himself a gentleman!” She faced Lorraine, who looked quite beautiful tonight, an amethyst in one ear, a sapphire in the other. “And this wasp. I know what you say about me, wasp. It is ungallant and unkind.” She turned to Choisy. “Take me for a walk.”

Guy offered his arm.

“Not you. I think I may hate you.” She looked again at Lorraine. “I know I hate you. Come, Choisy.”

“Why do you do things like this?” Philippe took the broken fan from Guy. “Ivory and jade. What a waste.”

“I do it because you don’t.”

“Bravo,” said Lorraine. “He needs to be firm with her.”

“Your presence and your inept advice are unnecessary.” Guy took a step toward Lorraine, who, with a flutter of white hands, lost himself in the crowd.

“Don’t allow the chevalier to insult Madame openly. It’s degrading to you,” Guy told Philippe.

“At least he comforts me in my dismay and confusion, which is more than I can say for you these days. You’re sullen and gloomy again.”

“I’ll have the fan repaired tomorrow and send her four more.”

“Walk with me out onto the terrace,” Philippe said. And when they stood in the moonlight, staring out at the road that ran straight as an arrow beside the pond and led to stables and forest and heath beyond, he put his hand on Guy’s. Guy leaned into the iron railings, holding onto them hard.

“Kiss me.”

“No.”

“For old time’s sake?”

“No.”

“Is the child mine?”

Guy turned and looked at his prince, his childhood companion, his sometimes lover, his beautiful and gifted and wounded friend.

“Tell me the truth.”

Guy went down on one knee, the torchlight playing over the even angles of his face. “It is your child. They are not lovers.” Yet, he kept himself from saying. Call Louis out, he wanted to shout. Demand honor. But he’d begun to despair that Philippe would never honor himself.

“Darling,” said Philippe.

“Don’t!”

“My wife is correct. You really are a boor.” Philippe went back inside the ballroom to stand beside his mother, who stayed up these days, keeping an eye out, he knew, but perhaps it was too late. Madame de Choisy had everyone in gales of laughter with tales about one of her footmen. Philippe’s heart ached. Did Louis really love Henriette? Lorraine said no. Why did Louis not throw him some small bone, some scrap of responsibility, that said, yes, you, flawed as you are, are worthy, too. All the Merciful Saints in heaven, if he had, Philippe would have fallen to his knees and worshipped him. Guy had his heart, the whole of it, except for Louis’s portion. His big, brave, perfect older brother. His big, brave, perfect friend. Why didn’t either of them appreciate his admiration? Was he so awful? So perverse? So beyond love? Was that why Henriette admired Louis? Hadn’t he always known that he would lose her? He hadn’t expected to care so much was all. The jest was on him.

As always.

He grabbed a goblet of wine from a passing servant, drained it, and immediately told a lightly risqué joke about a groom and the lady-in-waiting. His mother and Madame de Choisy laughed like witches at his expert mimic of both the groom and the lady, and he did, too, but only with his mouth.

Hours later when he’d drunk so much that he was sober again, he stared at the door that opened to Henriette’s chambers. In his mind, he saw himself walking through it, climbing into bed beside her, and pretending nothing had ever happened. If he pretended hard enough, wouldn’t it all just go away? But in a few hours, she and Louis would look at one another, and it would be evident they were in love. He was the fool in this drama. Molière knew that: no one was more amusing in a play than the betrayed husband. And had he really been betrayed? Hadn’t it always been a dream that he and Henriette would settle into their life like two doves and never stray? She’d simply strayed first, hadn’t she? Perhaps, one day, he could forgive that.

His carriage was waiting below to take him to Paris, to another life he lived there, a life he’d ignored for a time, but it was his real life. Not this. Never this, except in daydreams and the hopes of others, including himself.

Chapter 22

HERE WAS A LIGHT KNOCK ON THE DOOR, AND
L
OUIS’S VALET
, La Porte, opened his eyes. He dozed in a chair, having learned to do so years ago, until his majesty should be ready for him. But this wasn’t his majesty. Swaying slightly, Miss de la Baume le Blanc stood in the hall, along with La Grande Mademoiselle and Miss de Montalais. Tipsy, thought the valet, and sniffed.

“I-I know it’s late, La Porte.” Louise concentrated on not slurring her words.

“We come to see the dog,” announced La Grande.

The valet bowed, precise in his movement. “Madame Belle will be delighted to receive you.”

He led them to the huge cushion where Louis’s favorite dog lay. Louise plopped down in a jumble of skirts and put her hand to Belle’s nose. There was a large bandage on the dog’s abdomen.

“Her nose still feels warm, La Porte. I don’t think the new sticking plaster is working.” Louise put her face close to Belle’s. “How are you, my lady? May I pet you, your highness? I’ll be gentle.”

“What happened to the herb compress she made?” asked La Grande.

“His majesty’s physicians thought it unsuitable,” answered La Porte. “They made their own,” he gestured toward the dog, “as you see.”

Louise began to lightly stroke the dog’s head, and after a time, with a groan, the dog shifted herself so that her head was in Louise’s lap. “I don’t think she’s better,” she said.

“I don’t think so either.” La Porte looked around him, suddenly aware he and Louise were alone. Where were the other two? He found them in his majesty’s bedchamber, La Grande rifling through a drawer and the other one dancing around chairs.

“Forgive me, Grande Mademoiselle, but what are you doing?”

“I’m writing his majesty a note, or I will when I find paper … ah, here it is. Go away, little man. I don’t take questions as to my behavior from valets.”

“You shouldn’t be in here,” La Porte hissed, but he went back to the antechamber as ordered. The dog had gone back to sleep in Louise’s lap, and she had her eyes closed and was stroking Belle’s head. “They’re in his majesty’s bedchamber. It isn’t proper,” he told her.

Carefully, Louise moved Belle’s head, stood up. The dog had slobbered on the skirt of her gown, and she looked down at the stain.

“If you’ll have your maid bring your gown tomorrow, we’ll clean that,” said La Porte.

“Does he know?”

There was only one “he” in La Porte’s world. He pursed his lips, smoothed at the nonexistent wrinkles in his coat. The first thing his majesty did when he entered his chambers was to come immediately here and visit Belle. If he didn’t, she would limp to him, and neither La Porte nor his majesty could bear that. “Who can say?”

“Don’t you think he should know? There must be time for him to say good-bye, don’t you think, La Porte?”

“It isn’t my place to suggest such.”

Louise blinked. La Porte felt as if he’d slapped her.

“Of course. Nor mine. The physicians know best. Fanny! Your highness! Where are you?”

The pair appeared framed in a doorway.

“I’m so drunk,” Fanny said.

“Give this to his majesty.” La Grande held out a note.

La Porte opened the door. Louise was the last out.

“You’ll come tomorrow?” he called to her retreating figure.

She turned, her skirts swirling. “Yes.”

La Porte settled himself in his chair. Belle’s eyes were open. A daughter had come to lie beside her. A son sat near her head. The other son La Porte could see standing at attention at a door. His majesty was coming. La Porte stood up, walked toward the bedchamber.

“He’ll be here soon,” he said to Belle as he passed her. “Yes, my angel, I thought that would please you. He’ll be here in just a moment. Just wait there.”

But Belle was already straining to stand. Her tail had begun to wag, getting ready to greet her beloved master, as was La Porte.

Chapter 23

HE NEXT MORNING, FEELING HEMMED IN AND HUNGRY FOR
her wild forest rides, Louise tried to be content with a jaunt to the convent to visit Julie. She found the child in the garden that was part of the convent, Julie’s task to find and discard snails that dared think tiny lettuces or beans might be shared. The garden here was famous. Those who had little or nothing might knock upon the door in one of its walls and be assured of departing with a basket filled to the brim with whatever was ripe for harvest.

She and Julie sat under the shade of one of the old apple trees that rimmed the garden, and Louise unfolded a handkerchief to reveal rich, flaky rolls she’d brought from the palace kitchens. As Julie crammed as much of one as she was able into her mouth—the nuns’ fare here was plain—Louise talked to her of Madame’s return, of the king’s sick dog, of how she’d torn the lace collar of her favorite dress. She chatted idly, comforted a little by Julie’s happiness with the rolls, by the spreading of the limbs of the tree against which they leaned, by the sight of nuns hoeing in the garden.