The Secret of the Glass (49 page)

“
Ma chère, ma chère
Jeanne!” A high-pitched call reached her ears. Jeanne turned, and her heart burst with joy.

Pushing and shoving, two young women struggled out of the cluster of courtiers, rushing toward her, arms and smiles wide and welcoming. Jeanne became enveloped in silk and satin, pressed between two strong bodies, perfume, soap, and musky female scents engulfing her.

“We heard you were back.”

“Why have you not come to us sooner?”

Jeanne laughed, putting one arm around each of the women, relishing the acceptance she felt in their embrace and heard in their words.

“
Pardieu!
I am sorry,” Jeanne giggled. “But I am here now. Come, let me look at you.”

Jeanne released her friends and stepped back. Powdered and beauty-marked, Olympe de Cinq-Mars, daughter of the Marquis de Solignac, stood afire in brilliant red silk. Her jet-black hair and eyes burned with intensity. Paling in visual impact, Lynette La Marechal, daughter of the Duc du Vermorel, shimmered sweetly in yellow brocade, long blond curls pulled back softly to reveal her delicate skin and pale blue eyes.

“How I have missed you both,” Jeanne almost sobbed as the emotional reunion with her two dearest friends overwhelmed her. Heedless of prying eyes, she kissed each one tenderly on the lips. Here in their arms, she found consolation in returning to Versailles.

“How do I find you,
mes amies?
What is about?” Jeanne asked, taking each woman by the hand.

“I will marry soon.” Olympe was the first to answer, no surprise to Jeanne. “My father is in negotiations with quite a few hopefuls. Papa says many vie for my hand, but he will not concede to just anyone.
Maman
says every courtier in the country will attend my wedding. Well, the one’s who matter, at least.”

“How wonderful for you,
ma chère
.” Jeanne smiled at Olympe, seeing how little her friend had changed. Even as a young girl, Olympe’s thoughts and dreams had dwelled on court intrigue, fashion, and to one day making the perfect match.

“And you,
ma petite.
” Jeanne turned to Lynette, swinging the hands of her friends as they headed slowly toward the bevy of courtiers. “Is there a handsome young cavalier waiting for you?”

Lynette hid behind lowered lids, a pink flush spreading across her pale skin.

“
Non, chère
Jeanne, it is not a conventional marriage which I seek. My papa has petitioned the King to allow me to enter the Convent de La Bas Poitou.”

Jeanne stopped, arms pulling ahead of her body as her friends took another step or two.

“Truly?” Jeanne asked Lynette.

Unlike Jeanne, Lynette had completed her education at the abbey near Toulouse. Her letters had always been a window into the depth of her piety.

“It is what I desire above all else,” Lynette assured her, chin jutting out.

Jeanne smiled at her friend’s conviction.

“When will you know?”

“Soon, I hope.”

Jeanne hugged her, face close to her friend’s comely countenance.

“Do you feel well? Have you been ill?” Jeanne blurted her thoughts out, one of her least appealing habits, but Lynette’s pale skin and the purple smudges under the familiar orbs troubled her.

“No. I am fine and have been.” Lynette patted Jeanne’s hand still clasped in her own. “Have no fear, dearest.”

Jeanne smiled, nodding her head, but felt a niggling of lingering concern.

“And you, you rascal.” Olympe pulled Jeanne along to continue their stroll, looking sideways through narrowed dark eyes at her friend. “Is all we have heard true?”

“Too true, I fear.” Jeanne tried to look contrite, but the feigned repentance was an unconvincing mask before these two friends.

“You are the chatter of the chateau,” Olympe chided. “Could you not contain yourself for one more year?”

Jeanne shook her head vehemently, one long curl coming loose to fall blithely down her neck.

“It is a miracle I did not get ousted sooner.” Jeanne’s mouth turned up in a devilish grin, a decidedly malicious spark lighting in her sable eyes. “In truth, my dears, I did everything I could to get evicted.”

“
Non
, shh, do not say such things.” Lynette surreptitiously cast her gaze about. “Why? Why would you wish it to be so?”

“Why would I not? The place was abhorrent, the instruction was trivial nonsense, the girls were brainless twits, and the nuns were naught but veiled monsters.”

Jeanne closed her eyes tightly, repulsed by the memories. To revisit her seven years at the convent was to recall a nightmare that lasted all night. Just speaking of it brought the horrors quickly back; even the smells, the harsh lye soap, the burnt porridge, and the sickeningly sweet incense, came back to clog her sinuses. But it was the blind, slavelike obedience demanded from the sisters that she could not abide.

“How can my love of God be measured by how deeply I curtsey to the nuns?” Jeanne demanded self-righteously.

Olympe giggled loudly; Lynette shushed her again.

“You really must watch your tongue,” Lynette warned softly, teeth clamped tightly together. “You are a part of Louis’ court now. There are ears everywhere. You must control your words.”

“Ha!” Olympe barked, holding her chin a smidgen higher and flashing a sensual smile at two young soldiers as they passed. “Advising Jeanne to hold her tongue is like advising the world to stop turning. It cannot be done.”

Jeanne giggled, joyful at being among those who knew her well, yet accepted and loved her regardless.

“What will you do?” Lynette stopped and turned to face Jeanne, searching her friend’s face under tightly knit brows.

“She will marry, of course.” Olympe rolled her dark eyes at Lynette.

Jeanne remained silent but shared a telling look with Lynette. She longed to pour her heart out, to tell of all the unrequited dreams fermenting in her heart. Lynette put an arm around her friend, stifling the barrage about to burst, and turned Jeanne toward the large group. They were but a mere few paces away; to speak would be for all to hear.

The three young women arrived at the edge of the clustered courtiers. Jeanne held firmly to her friends, trepidation tightening her grip. A few of the gaudily plumed beau monde turned to glance at her; a few whispered to their friends, snide giggles erupting here and there; a few reared quickly away, nostrils flaring as if they smelled something distasteful. Surprisingly, a few afforded her shallow curtseys and barely perceptible bows.

“There, you see,” Lynette whispered gently, “they welcome you back with open hearts.”

Jeanne almost guffawed out loud. “If these are open hearts, then I am King Louis.”

As if the mention of his name summoned him, the crowd parted and the great sovereign strutted into the center of the circle.

There are men others will instinctively follow, for whom they will act with blind obedience. Louis XIV was such a man. Some called him the handsomest man in France. Jeanne thought it was his persona, his courtesy, reticence, and an almost inhuman tranquility, which made him appear larger than life. In reality, Dieudonné de Bourbon the man was only five-five, just an inch taller than Jeanne herself. His vast selection of wigs, worn in lieu of his own hair for the last ten years, added inches to his stature. His deep-set, heavy-lidded, dark eyes carried the secrets of the universe within their depths. The full-lipped mouth topped with the tightly manicured, curving moustache showed the devilishly playful side of the Sun King.

Louis had changed little in the seven years since Jeanne last saw him; while slightly rounder at the middle, he still projected the bearing of greatness, perhaps more than ever in the midst of his magnificent palace. The long, dark curls of Louis’ periwig flowed over his coat of dove-gray silk boasting thick, silver-embroidered buttonholes running all the way down the full skirt of his jacket. Inches and inches of Venetian lace flowed from cuffs and collar. Scarlet, tightly fitting trunk hose matched the deep red heels of his diamond-buckled leather shoes and the deep red of the many plumes of his dove-gray felt hat.

Standing on the outskirts of the entourage, Jeanne was grateful Louis had not noticed her. The moment when she must face him would come, but she did not wish it to be today. The King knew her well; as a small child she had spent many hours playing in the royal nursery with the Dauphin, the King’s son and heir. But it was the child Louis would remember; Jeanne knew not what he would think of her, the woman, and despite herself, she cared deeply of his opinion.

The bevy of people began to rustle, anxious to be off on one of the King’s walks; they jostled and pushed in their eagerness. Off to one side of the King stood a ravishing blond woman, resplendent in violet satin and lace.

“Pray, Lynette, who is that woman?” Jeanne used her gaze to point.

Lynette rose up on tiptoes to see around the piled-high hair and towering hats obstructing her view. A distinctive light sparked in her soft blue eyes.

“Why, my dear, that is Athénaïs herself.”

Jeanne’s mouth formed a small but perfect circle, surprised and delighted to finally see the woman. Athénaïs, the Marquise de Montespan, was the King’s powerful, titular mistress, famous for her beauty and sophistication. In the full sun of midmorning, Athénaïs glowed. Her radiant and abundant blond hair, the shimmering cerulean eyes, and the perfect pink mouth, like the opening of a rose, sat supremely above the slim but curvaceous figure.

“She looks so young,” Jeanne whispered for her friends’ ears only. At forty-one, the marquise was only three years younger than the king.

“Evil never ages.” Olympe smiled, staring at Athénaïs.

“Evil?” Jeanne’s brows rose high on her forehead, creasing the soft, pliable skin.

“Not now,” Lynette hissed to her friends, moving to stand between them like a mother separating her wayward children.

Françoise-Athénaïs Rochechouart de Mortemart was not the first mistress to warm the King’s bed. The French people had long come to accept the King’s behavior; he had married for the political health of their country. He deserved to find satisfaction wherever he could. His subjects could not begrudge him whatever joy he might find, even if it was in the arms of a mistress or two.

The path to be the most favored had been difficult for Athénaïs, a married woman. For the King to cuckold another man was a scandalous affair—though conversely, the more women the King conquered, the greater his power grew. After years of Athénaïs’s beauty and glamour infecting the court, the people had come to grips with her married status. Even the church acknowledged the King’s right to a titular mistress and recognized Athénaïs, giving her the same power as the Queen, just as the courtiers and commoners did.

“Where is Louise?” Jeanne asked, referring to the previous favorite, Louise de La Vallière.

“Usurped and dismissed,” Olympe eagerly responded. “Years ago.”

“Where?” Jeanne asked, though Lynette fiercely pinched the soft skin of her wrist.

“The Carmelite convent.” Olympe slapped Lynette’s hands away from Jeanne’s, getting a tight-lipped scowl in response. “Sister Louise de La Miséricorde.”

“
Non?
” Jeanne’s eyes popped wide.

“
Oui.
” Olympe beamed.

Jeanne smiled back at her friend, as much at Olympe’s obvious delight in gossiping as in the gossip itself.

“And who, pray, is that?” Jeanne tilted her head at the austere, darkly garbed, full-figured woman standing near to Athénaïs.

“Ah,” moaned Olympe with the delight of the obese man as he sits down to a feast. “That is Madame Françoise Scarron, the governess to Louis and Athénaïs’s children. Now,
she
is making things quite interesting. They say—”

“Mesdames, mademoiselles, messieurs.” The King’s deep vibrato captured everyone’s attention. “Let us walk.”

With many a “Yes, Your Highness” and “
Certainement,
Your Majesty,” the procession began. They followed obediently behind the King as he strutted off on his red leather-covered cork-heeled shoes. Olympe leaned toward Jeanne, whispering a conspiratorial “later” as she winked one dark eye. Jeanne winked back delightedly, turning her attention to the head of the procession and the King.

“Ah,
chère duchesse,
it is such a pleasure to have you with us this fine day. It is such a joy to show my home to someone who has never seen it before.”

Jeanne studied the King’s guest. Her brows knit at the gaudiness of the duchess’s
accoutrements.

“She must be a supremely strong woman,” Jeanne said to Olympe over Lynette’s head.

“How so?” Olympe asked.

“To be able to hold oneself upright under the weight of all those jewels must take mammoth strength.” The duchess had served as the mistress to many. As each affair ended and she was dismissed by an apologetic but completely satiated married man, she had been given another magnificent piece of gemmed adornment.

“She wears them like medals she has earned in a war.” Olympe whispered.

“Has she not?” Jeanne’s lips curled in a cynical smile, her gaze hard and cold.

With such a reverent audience, Louis lauded the splendor of Versailles in great detail.

“The bricks were formed by hand, one by one. Do they not match perfectly those of the original building?” His question was rhetorical; his enjoyment was in the sound of his own voice and the greatness of his home.

Versailles, located on the main road between Normandy and Paris, was situated on the vast private property of the Bourbon family.

“So close, we are, so close,” Louis continued, pointing to the north and south wings, those allocated to the Secretaries of State, where the work still progressed.

Scaffolds stood like the building’s external skeleton while thousands of workers flitted to and fro, like ants on a farm, scurrying to the notions of the King. Twenty years ago, when the renovation work had begun in earnest, there had been close to thirty thousand laborers on the grounds.

“My chateau is almost finished.”

“Chateau? He still calls it a chateau?” Jeanne hissed with a harsh whisper. “
Mon dieu,
it is the size of a small village.”