Mistress of the Sun (14 page)

Leaving Petite.

“I’ll take you to Madame Henriette myself,” the Duchess said, looking over Petite’s bodice. “It fits you ill.” She frowned.

“It was given to me,” Petite said. The gown, a heavy winter-weight brocade, was all she had suitable for the evening, adorned
as it was with ribbon rosettes and full sleeves bunched with matching rosettes down the arms. She was sweltering in it.

“The corset must come to more of a point.” The Duchess fluffed Petite’s curls to hang onto her shoulders. “Madame Henriette insists that her attendants be ‘in the fashion,’ as the young people say. She has a creative sensibility, an imbalance of yellow bile that should soon be remedied by motherhood. Your job will be to please her, but at the same time to exert a calming influence. One reason that the Queen Mother, in her great wisdom, approved your appointment is that you have a reputation for virtue.”

Petite was surprised that she had any reputation at all.

The Duchess smiled, but not kindly. “Never forget, child, that at Court, everything you do and everything you say is observed and recorded.” She tapped her head. “Here.”

“Yes, Madame la Duchesse,” Petite said.

Petite followed the superintendent through a dark passage into a galley, which opened onto yet another courtyard. At the far end they climbed a wide stairway, emerging into an elegant antechamber richly decorated with tapestries and paintings.

“We are expected,” the Duchess informed the two guards, who threw open the doors.

The room was Oriental in its opulence, every peeling surface ornamented, the walls hung with dark pagan art: Venus reclining nude, the rape of Europa. The air was perfumed with the sweet
rosemary scent of Hungary water. Servants in red livery stood like sentinels in the shadows.

In the center of the room, with her back to them, was the Princess. Her red hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of her long neck and embellished with pale green ribbons that matched her gown.

“Do you know a pavane by Aisne?” she called up to the quartet of musicians standing in a balcony above.

The men gathered up their instruments—two violins, a theorbo and a violo.

“A little faster,” she said, making a circling motion with one hand. “That’s it.” She made a graceful glissade to the left and then one to the right. “Like that, Mimi?” she crooned to a spaniel she held tucked in one arm like a baby. “Ah!” she exclaimed glancing up, finally noticing her visitors.

“Your Highness,” the Duchesse de Navailles said, bowing.

“Your Highness,” Petite echoed, making the melting reverence she’d just been taught.

“I bring you another maid of honor,” the Duchess said. “Mademoiselle Louise-Françoise La Baume Le Blanc de la Vallière,” she said all in one breath.

Petite looked down. She well understood that the Duchess had listed all her family names in order to compensate for the fact that her pedigree was inferior, going back only a few hundred years, and certainly not to the Crusades.

The musicians sounded the last bar of the pavane and without pause began it again. The Princess hummed the melody, then opened her eyes. A fringe of bright corkscrew curls across her forehead gave her an endearingly frazzled look. “Forgive me if I seem somewhat distracted. I love this piece passionately, and the King’s musicians are the best in the world. De la Vallière, did you say? Where is that?”

“Near Reugny, Your Highness,” the Duchess answered. “It’s a town in the south, not far from Amboise. Mademoiselle de la Vallière’s father was governor of the castle there.”

“La Vallière is a Duchy?” the Princess asked, one hand moving slowly to the music. The dog in her arms watched her hand expectantly.

“No, Madame.”

The Princess set the dog down on a tasseled cushion and stroked its head. “A Marquisate?” she asked, standing, turning her full attention to the matter at hand.

“Not yet,” the Duchess said nervously, examining the papers. “It has been applied for, but the letters patent has yet to be issued. One of Mademoiselle de la Vallière’s ancestors rode beside Jeanne d’Arc.”

“And one of my ancestors condemned her to death,” the Princess said with a laugh, toying with one of the side curls that hung loose to her shoulders.

“Your Highness,” the Duchesse de Navailles persisted, her voice
betraying uneasiness, “Princess Marguerite d’Orléans, the future Grand Duchess of Tuscany, highly recommended Mademoiselle de la Vallière, who served her for…” She looked down at the papers. “For over six years.”

“My cousin Marguerite?” Henriette touched one finger to a heart-shaped patch of fabric stuck to her chin. “She’s something of a romp, don’t you think?” she asked Petite, her look mischievous.

“She is a high-spirited princess, Your Majesty.”

Henriette laughed. “Some might describe me in this way, so perhaps we shall get along. Come closer.”

Nervously, Petite advanced ahead of the Duchess, holding out her skirts.

“You walk with a slight limp, I notice.”

Petite felt chagrined. She’d changed out of her new corrective boots into evening slippers.

“From a riding accident, Your Highness,” the Duchesse de Navailles interjected.

“But you do ride, Mademoiselle?”

“Oh, yes, Your Highness.”

“I am given to understand that she is an accomplished horsewoman,” the Duchess said.

“Good, because the King insists we go out riding with him constantly,” Henriette said with an arch grimace.

“Mademoiselle de la Vallière’s needlework is delicate,” the Duchesse de Navailles went on, still reading from the documents,
“she’s a pitch-perfect soprano and she reads well, in French, of course, but also Latin and…Greek?”

Petite nodded. “But only little Greek. I am studying it now.”

“What? No Spanish or Italian?” Henriette put her hands on her hips in mock horror. “Do you dance, Mademoiselle de la Vallière?”

“I love to dance,” Petite confessed.

“Show us.” Henriette motioned to two young ladies to watch, one in a powdered wig, the other in ribboned ringlets (the other maids of honor, Petite surmised). Henriette held her hand up to the musicians. “A gigue—just one movement.”

The gigue—a lively dance comprising fast, springing steps—was one of Petite’s favorites. Concentrating to compensate for her short leg, she performed four pas de bourrée, finishing with a contretemps de gavotte.

“Very nice,” the Princess said. “Didn’t you think?”

The maids—introduced as Yeyette and Claude-Marie—nodded begrudging assent.

“His Majesty has entrusted me with the creation of the Court entertainments this summer, Mademoiselle, and I am in need of girls who can dance well. Speaking of which, Madame de Navailles, am I not to have one more maid of honor?”

The Duchess was silenced as pages flung open the double doors and a butler announced Monsieur, the King’s brother. Everyone in the room made a reverence as he entered the room.

Petite had seen Monsieur Philippe at that disastrous fete at
Blois, two years before. She remembered him as a short man, even in high red heels. Now, with his wife towering over him, he seemed even shorter. He was wearing a yellow justacorps with gold facings and ribbons, the long lace ruffle of his petticoat breeches showing at the knees.

“What’s that on your chin, my sweet?” he asked his wife, his gloved right hand on the hilt of a gold-crested sword. He was wearing a periwig in the new, natural style, topped by a three-cornered red hat with white plumes hanging down. He was not that comely, but he made up for his looks in his dress.

“A mouche, darling,” Henriette answered her husband, touching the spot. “They are the fashion in London.”

“And this is a new attendant?” he asked, turning to Petite. Night was falling, and servants began to light candles.

“Yes, Your Highness,” the Duchess said. “Mademoiselle Louise Françoise la Baume le Blanc de la Vallière.”

Petite made a gracious bow, her toes well turned out. Under her skirts, her bent knees were trembling, and she hoped no one could tell.

“Am I not to have four maids of honor?” Henriette asked her husband, picking up her little dog and caressing him.

“Yes, Your Highness,” the Duchesse de Navailles said over the sound of trumpets outside. She squinted at her papers. “Another maid will be arriving in a week or so.”

“We must not keep my brother waiting,” Philippe said, seeming anxious to set out.

“Mademoiselle de Montalais,” the Duchesse de Navailles read as Philippe ushered his wife out the doors.

Nicole!
Petite could hardly refrain from exclaiming.

“You take this,” the maid in the wig told Petite, pushing Henriette’s fur wrap into Petite’s arms.

In a daze, Petite followed the royal couple’s entourage out the big double doors and through a succession of rooms, eventually emerging into a dark oval courtyard. Henriette, concerned about the horse leavings on the cobbles, called for two litters. One was not sufficiently ornate for Monsieur, so they called for a third. Once the couple was settled, the hefty bearers took off at a run across the courtyard and through an arched portal under a grand stone staircase. Petite raced to keep up, following the party through a guard room and a series of cabinets before coming to an abrupt halt in a long colonnade that opened onto a terrace.

Outside, courtiers in all manner of exquisite dress strolled about in the torchlight. Beyond a low balustrade was a dark expanse of water, reflecting lights. Off to one side, chairs appeared to have been set in front of a raised platform at the water’s edge—for a theatrical performance, Petite guessed, to judge by the props. Candles were being lit all around the platform.

“We were supposed to make our entrance from the top of the stairs,” Monsieur said with annoyance, adjusting his hat so that the plumes did not fall into his eyes.

A page was sent running for the musicians, who arrived shortly, lugging their instruments. They formed two lines, and at a signal, the arrival of the couple was announced. The crowds parted, and courtiers bowed as Monsieur and Madame proceeded to the water’s edge.

“I’ll put Madame’s wrap by her chair,” Yeyette explained, taking the furs from Petite.

“Meet us by the steps after the King and Queen arrive,” Claude-Marie said over her shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

For the first time that day, Petite was alone—albeit in the midst of a mingling throng. She walked down to the water, where three ornate gondolas and a gilded barge were being tended by boat-men in red and blue silk. The smoke of perfume braziers misted the air.

Musicians began to play a minuet—but from where? The music was faint, coming from a distance. Petite didn’t recognize the piece, but it was magical, filling the air with mystic sweetness. It took a moment before she could make out the lights of a barge on the dark water. She felt enraptured, as if under a spell.

“The Comédie-Française is performing again tonight?” Petite heard a woman behind her say. “The Queen won’t be pleased.”

Petite turned to see Athénaïs, the elegant Marquise de Rochechouart who had sat across from her on the trip down from Paris. Petite smiled, relieved to see a familiar face, then felt herself flush (aware now of Athénaïs’s high station).

“At least they make the King laugh,” said a little man. He had an ugly face and was shorter than Athénaïs by at least a head.

From his dress, Petite realized that he was the man she had seen on horseback earlier, the one she’d taken for a boy.

“He could use a little gaiety,” he said, jumping to see over the heads of the courtiers. “Where is he?”

“The Queen insisted on two hours of prayer this afternoon, so they’re running late.” Athénaïs’s tapered bodice was cut daringly low. “Ah! It’s my sister,” she said, recognizing Petite. “Look, Lauzun.” Athénaïs put her gloved hand on Petite’s arm. “Do we not look alike?” She pressed her cheek against Petite’s.

The little man twisted his face into a skeptical expression, his brow furrowed like a field in spring. He looked Petite over and let out a sound remarkably like that of a donkey braying.

“Stop that, Lauzun. You’ll unnerve the girl. Come on: don’t you think we look like sisters?”

“Well, yes, perhaps, but with the exception of…” He stared unabashedly at Athénaïs’s bosom.

Athénaïs burst out laughing. “Mademoiselle de la Vallière, meet His Clownship, Monsieur Lauzun—the King’s fool…and my folly.”

“My pleasure,” Petite said with a curtsy. He was the smallest man she had ever seen—no taller than a sword.

“Mademoiselle de la Vallière is fortunate to be serving Madame,” Athénaïs said, “who is a bit more lively than—”

Athénaïs was interrupted by a blare of trumpets.

“Jingo! It appears Their Majesties have finally arrived,” Lauzun said, disappearing into the crowd.

As the King, Queen and Queen Mother came down the stairs, everyone fell into a reverence, and then a second, and then a third, as if the courtiers were one great exotic flower blowing in a gentle breeze.

Petite felt breathless watching the King approach, the Queen and Queen Mother a few steps behind. He was wearing a rhinegrave, its hooped skirt and full breeches adorned with brightly colored ribbons. He was even more comely than she remembered. He walked like the king that he was, but something in his expression—a shy glance to one side—hinted at the rustic she’d met that day in the meadow: a kind man who had a way with horses.

Aunt and niece by blood, the two queens looked very alike. Dressed in dour black silk, the Queen meekly followed behind her formidable aunt, her eyes cast to the ground.

“We frighten her,” Athénaïs whispered. “Poor thing.”

“Is she in mourning?”

“She likes to dress as a nun,” she said with upcast eyes. “Especially now that she’s finally been
made.
”

Ah, Petite thought, so the rumors were true: the Queen was with child. She gasped to see a tiny face peek out from under the Queen’s train.

“It’s just José,” Athénaïs said, “Her Majesty’s favorite dwarf—her Holy Fool. He’s harmless, but watch out for the blond one.”
Athénaïs slipped off a glove and held up her index finger, wrapped in a plaster. “The little beast bites.”