To Serve a King (49 page)

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 tran-quility, which made him appear larger than life. In reality, Dieu-donné 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 gaudi-ness 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 château is almost finished.”

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

“Shush!” Lynette remonstrated, eyes narrowed in warning.

Jeanne looked back over her shoulder. From this vantage point, far into the garden, she could see almost all of Versailles in one glance. The group of buildings forming the entire palace stood on a slight rise overlooking the village. The huge additions and front gate pilasters echoed the original exterior of warm russet brick and creamy stone with a roof of blue-gray slate. The front faced east and emphasized a hospitable aspect by enclosing three sides of a black-and-white marble quadrangle courtyard, the breathtaking
Cour de Marbre.

“How can France and Louis afford such lavishness?” Jeanne continued, heedless of her friend’s warning.

“He is obsessed. The cost is trivial,” Olympe murmured, gaze narrowing at Lynette as she gave her friend a warning of her own.

“Now on, on to my water gardens.” The King continued his narration, turning now and then to include the rest of the party, his voice loud and resounding. The courtiers hung on every word though they had all heard them many times before, following in a precise procession, like a herd of cattle trailing after their leader.

“I’ve spent hours and hours, days and days designing the magnificence
you see here.” Louis spread his arms wide as if to embrace the entire estate.

“I am sure Le Nôtre, Caysevax, and Le Vau will be delighted to hear that.” Jeanne snipped the names of the real designers in her friends’ ears.

Without a turn of her head, Lynette poked her elbow hard into Jeanne’s stomach.

“Oof.” The air rushed from Jeanne’s lungs. She gave Lynette a small, sheepish smile but said nothing more.

“I will take you through my favorite route.” Louis turned the group to their left and immediately the delightful fragrances of exotic flowers and orange blossoms assaulted the senses.

“Do you know the King is writing a book about these gardens?” Olympe asked.

“Oui,”
Lynette chimed in, a look of relief at the appropriate conversation quite evident on her pale features. “It is said the treatise will give, in detail, the correct path to take through the grounds.”

From the
Parterre d’Eau
they walked to the Orangery and then onto the Ballroom Grove. Within the massive, asymmetrically designed landscape, sunken garden rooms existed between box hedges, blossoming archways, and delicate trellis work. Each area was spectacularly furnished with stone and marble chairs, benches and tables, and hung with silken drapes and tapestries.

A pond, one that symbolized each season, was centered by bronzed tritons and nymphs and stood as a reminder that the Sun King controlled not only the days but also the year. As the King strode forward, the water park came to life. Louis approached one of the fountains, and its sleeping mechanisms sprang into action, spurting water in a torrent of tender teardrops, spraying in a circular pattern, sending gentle, cooling sprinkles on the whole entourage, each drop glistening like a tiny jewel in the bright sunlight.

The courtiers dutifully oohed and ahhed. Jeanne, unfamiliar
with the spectacle, stopped with mouth agape and eyes wide like a child on Christmas morn. Lynette and Olympe smiled fondly at Jeanne, the adoring, watchful parents. Jeanne turned with a giddy grin to her friends, then back to the exhibits. Once the King passed the first fountain, its geyser ceased to flow, and the cessation of sound and movement left a silent, empty void. Jeanne jumped as the adjacent fountain spurted into action, jets of water gushing out with a roar just as the King passed. A colorful, almost mythical, rainbow formed in the mist, capturing the King in the zenith of its arch.

“Is it magic?” Jeanne turned her face to the sun, and the soothing droplets of water flowing over her features stuck to her skin like gems, sending her face into a sparkling reality.

Olympe came and, with a condescending grin, took her friend by the arm, pulling her away from the water.

“Silly woman,” Olympe chided. “See those men?”

Jeanne turned to where Olympe pointed and spied the inconspicuous guards stationed at each fountain. Dressed in dark green velvet tunics, pants, and hose, the slim cavaliers blended into their environment.

“Their sole purpose is to make certain these waters flow for the King,” Olympe continued, seeing the look of confusion on Jeanne’s face. “They whistle, dear, when the King approaches, each with a different note. It alerts those manned at the switches when and which water to turn on.”

Jeanne glanced round, seeing the other men sitting below the line of trees, dressed in the same camouflaging outfit, hands posed on metal levers. She smiled in bemused appreciation.

“Brilliant,” she said in genuine awe.

“Ah,
oui,
” Olympe agreed, pulling Jeanne’s hand, stepping quickly with her to catch up with Lynette and the rest of the group.

Jeanne listened with rapt attention as the King prattled on for another half hour and they passed sculptures and fountains and
ponds and basins until the tour ended its almost circular path at the back entrance to the palace only a few feet away.

A few of the older courtiers took their leave of the group with graceful bows and curtseys, no doubt in need of rest after the long walk. Others hung about, pretending to be deep in conversation while in truth watching the King closely. With a bow to Athénaïs and Madame Scarron, Louis allowed himself to be led away by the duchess.