Before Versailles (73 page)

“I
THINK THERE
is someone,” said Catherine.

Louise’s hand tightened on Fanny’s. They rode inside the carriage with Madame and the Princess de Monaco, and though the maids of honor were dressed in their finest, and Louise wore her diamond bracelets, they were overawed at the finery of the princesses riding with them, their gowns crusted to stiffness with embroidery and ribbons. Even their leather shoes were embroidered, and they wore jewels in their hair and at their ears and necks and on their arms and on the fingers of their long gloves, magnificent jewels, splendid and sparkling.

Catherine turned imperious eyes on the two sitting opposite. “What have you noticed?”

“I think he fancies the Countess de Soissons,” said Fanny without missing a beat.

Catherine’s eyes narrowed on Louise. “You see more than you say. What do you think?”

“I don’t know, princess. He seems kind to everyone.”

“You wear his bracelets all the time. Perhaps it’s you.” Catherine let out a peal of laughter, cold and mocking. “That would really be too funny.”

“I believed it for a moment because of the bracelets,” said Henriette.

There was a silence. Both princesses stared across the carriage at Louise, who shrank back against the leather seat, feeling impaled by what was in their faces.

“Or Miss de Chimerault,” said Fanny. “It could be her.”

Catherine removed her gaze from Louise. “I thought you were convinced it was Soissons. You two watch him tonight, and we’ll compare notes later.”

Henriette put her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to know who he flirts with. Lord, this is taking forever. How much longer?”

But they were just one carriage in a sea of carriages all moving slowly toward the biggest fête in the kingdom.

B
Y AFTERNOON, THRONGS
of carriages jockeyed for space in the viscount’s entrance courtyard. Only certain carriages were actually being allowed in; the rest were stopping long enough to let down their passengers, then being directed to stables somewhere in the outbuildings. Courtyards and front lawns were a melee of people walking about under the noses of horses that coachmen were trying to control, while grooms and servants milled around to help people from their carriages and lead them across the château’s entrance bridge and toward its front terrace and magnificent porch, where the viscount stood with his wife and family receiving guests.

Linked by iron railings to form a fence, towering pillars the height of three men were the first barrier visitors met. Beyond, past lawns cut by gravel paths and sitting in the circle of a moat more decorative than practical, was the château. It rose grand, serene, and secure, with a vast central dome; nothing rambling or awkward or simple about its stately demeanor. It was a splendid triumph celebrating the concept of order and harmony on a great scale, celebrating the way a house might be enhanced by its landscape. Everywhere the eye fell, there was something to admire, from the grace of stone figures, which adorned the house, to the breadth of the entrance terrace, accented by its narrow stone bridge across the moat. People milled about everywhere, on its terraces and in the courtyards and leaning out the windows and over the stone balustrades of the moat. A long line of humanity waited to greet the viscount.

When Henriette’s carriage lumbered up to the moat, servants surrounded it and directed the coachman to bring it forward, and one went running toward the château to inform the viscount and Philippe, who had traveled in a separate carriage.

“Make way for the princess,” shouted one of Nicolas’s footmen, and Henriette walked across a handsome bridge toward the château.

“Isn’t this magnificent?” exclaimed Fanny to Louise. “Look at the people.”

Henriette, her household fanning out behind her, stopped just on the other side of the bridge, waiting for the viscount and for Philippe to come to her. Nicolas bowed low. Philippe nodded coolly in the direction of his wife.

He’ll never be mine again, will he? thought Henriette.

“I am so delighted you’ve arrived. Now the fête may be said to have truly begun. If you will step this way and allow me to present again my wife, and this is my brother and my sister …” said Nicolas, beginning to introduce his family.

All around them people nudged one another for space and tried not to miss a word. Until Louis arrived, Henriette and Philippe were queen and king and would be treated so. The viscountess led Henriette and her ladies to her own bedchamber and left them there to refresh themselves. Someone ran up to Fanny as they climbed the stairs to the viscountess’s chambers and said something to her and then was gone again.

“Guiche is here,” Fanny whispered to Louise. “Promise me you’ll ask the king to allow him back.”

“No.”

Fanny stopped where she was on the staircase. She looked down at one of her gloves. “I can’t lie for you forever.”

“Is that a threat?” asked Louise.

“I don’t know,” said Fanny.

In the bedchamber, once the viscountess left them, women ran to the walls, which were lined in pier glass from wainscoting to ceiling and reflected to infinity everything. Each woman stood in front of silvered glass admiring herself or adjusting her ribbons or neckline. Against one wall was a huge cabinet of solid silver. All the candlesticks and wall sconces and chimney dogs were solid silver, too. There was a small bed, with just the slightest headboard, as well as a huge bed with hangings. Genoa velvet, the most expensive of fabrics, covered all the furniture.

“Well,” said Henriette, turning around in a circle, “I must have pier glass on all my walls, too. My bedchamber at Fontainebleau feels positively paltry.”

Catherine sat on the small bed, her skirts spreading around her in a beautiful arc. “Isn’t this wonderful? It’s a daybed for naps.”

“There is no time for naps. Let me see you all,” Henriette commanded.

Maids of honor lined up obediently, and Henriette walked in front of them, considering what each of them had worn.

“We don’t have anything matching,” whined Madeleine.

Their old trick of wearing some little adornment to mark them hadn’t been of interest to Henriette lately, but she could feel she was the center of what was clearly going to be a magnificent party. She’d sensed it as she walked across the moat. Maria Teresa would be no competition in either wit, conversation, or style. She, Henriette, would be the one all eyes followed. Was she going to give the Countess de Soissons or the queen mother the pleasure of seeing her despairing and drooping at the best party in years? Oh, they’d love that, wouldn’t they? Was Philippe going to continue to ignore her? How did she bear that, particularly knowing it was all her fault? What a mess she’d made for the sake of Louis, who somehow triumphed over his guilty love and left her wallowing behind in the murk. It was over with Louis, wasn’t it? How could that be?

She swallowed past the lump that seemed to be permanently in her throat these days. Everywhere she looked she was reflected, her gown as deep a green as the emeralds she wore. It made her pale skin look almost bleached, which was the shade this century preferred its women to be. She looked wonderful, and she carried a child. She’d give Philippe his son, and then he’d forgive her a little. Her mother had warned that the undercurrents of court were treacherous. There were those who were hoping tonight to see her misstep, to see her sad. I am Madame, she thought, the fairy queen of court. Let me act it even if I don’t feel it. Philippe liked it best when she was buoyant and lively. She tossed her head and lifted her chin and determined to make five men quarrel over dancing with her by midnight. No one was going to know how weary and small her heart felt.

“Your roses,” said Fanny.

The Viscountess Nicolas had given Henriette a huge bunch of pale lavender roses. Fanny rummaged through drawers in the big silver cupboard, giving a little yelp of triumph when she found hairpins and a small pair of gold scissors. In no time at all, she had a cluster of roses made for them all. She pinned one at the corner of the low neck of Louise’s gown. “I didn’t mean it, what I said on the stairs,” she whispered. “I’m not myself anymore.” And then, louder, “What do you think, Madame?”

“Perfect. I, for one, think I am going to have to flirt quite outrageously tonight. I trust you’ll support me in my efforts.” For a moment, she almost wept at the memory those words stirred, but she managed not to.

Giggling laughter rose in quite its old way. Henriette led her ladies out of the bedchamber, pausing at the top of the stairs until she was seen by the viscountess, who hurried toward her, as the whirl of people in the huge vestibule below turned to watch her descend the stairs.

A
S HE RODE
through the woods beside the carriages, his despair quieted a bit. It was a beautiful afternoon. The forest smelled green and moist. He filled his lungs with cool, clean air. If only half his blood were royal, did that make him any less equal to the task ahead? He could feel the sense of destiny that had always driven him. You were born for this, his beloved cardinal had told him. A piece of the past was gone, as dead as Cinq Mars, as the boy. Any question of his birth would be a sometimes faint rumor, as old as the Mazarinades, until the question faded to a whisper that no one could hear. He was king, he, Louis the fourteenth of that name, he and no one else, and he would make a mark in this time and space of his so large that all else was forgotten.

Their caravan of coaches and riders and musketeers and household troops stopped so that Maria Teresa might stretch her legs. He left his wife and her ladies fluttering around the carriages and walked to his mother, who had abandoned her carriage to stand alone, under a magnificent oak whose thick arms grew low to the ground and spread their length out as if they would amble on forever. He saw that she had been weeping.

“Are you well?” he asked.

“I have a pain. It’s nothing.” Her eyes met his. “I am going to say this once more, for both our sakes, then you are never to ask me again for I will never answer again. Your father was Louis, the thirteenth of that name. He sired you. No other.”

They stared at each other, the will of each enormous, emotion between them flickering the way Louis’s eyes did when he was at his most dangerous. He bowed and turned away. So be it. Her words would be the truth he held to his heart. Her truth would be the strength from which he struck. As he returned to his wife, Olympe sauntered up, Athénaïs a little distance away.

“Is it true,” Olympe whispered, “that a musketeer attacked the queen mother?”

“It’s true that there was a lover’s quarrel between a musketeer and Madame de Motteville in the queen mother’s presence,” said Louis.

“I heard someone was shot with a pistol.”

“Someone was hurt and may die,” said Louis. He spoke very gently, and Athénaïs, seeing the expression on his face, lowered her eyes and cursed herself for being anywhere near Olympe. “I tell you this as a friend. I would ask your discretion and kindness in seeing that gossip about this goes no farther.”

“Of course. I’m yours to command.”

But he knew she’d talk. He depended on it, and thus truth would become intermingled with lie, and in time, no one would know the difference.