Lucien took comfort in the robustness of his King. His Majesty was an old man, but an old man restored to health.
Monsieur offered His Majesty a bowl of spirits of wine. His Majesty dipped his fingers. Lucien brought him his towel. He wiped his hands.
Fagon examined the King, as he did every day.
“Your Majesty is in excellent health.” Fagon spoke loudly enough for the courtiers to hear. They murmured their approval. “If Your Majesty wishes, I will shave Your Majesty today.”
“I’m flattered, M. Fagon,” Louis said. “When did you last shave anyone’s chin?”
“When I was an apprentice, Sire, but I have kept my razor sharp.”
The royal barber stepped aside, hiding his disappointment at being displaced on this day of all days. Dr. Fagon shaved His Majesty’s face. He removed His Majesty’s small morning wig and shaved the gray stubble of what remained of his natural hair, without a misplaced motion.
“Excellent work, sir. Perhaps you are wasted as a doctor.”
If Fagon were insulted, he concealed his reaction.
“All my talents are perpetually at Your Majesty’s service.”
As the rising ceremony progressed, the usher allowed successive groups of courtiers into His Majesty’s bedroom. When Fifth Entry arrived, Lucien noted with disgust that Father de la Croix had disregarded His Majesty’s invitation.
For anyone to rebuff such an honor is appalling, Lucien thought. For a Jesuit to do so is remarkable.
Monsieur divested His Majesty of his nightgown and handed him his shirt. Lace cascaded from the throat and the cuffs. His stockings were of the finest white French silk, his pantaloons of black satin. Pearls encrusted the scabbard of his sword, and his swordbelt, in an intricate design. Embroidered golden fleurs de lys covered his long coat. All the fabric of his clothes came straight from the finest French manufactories, made especially for today: for today was a day to impress the Italians, who liked to pretend their cloth and lace, their leather and designs, were the height of fashion.
Monsieur knelt before his brother and helped him slip into his high-heeled shoes.
Though His Majesty no longer dressed in the colors of flame and sunlight, as he had early in his reign, he continued his custom of wearing red shoes for state occasions.
Diamonds encrusted the heavy gold buckles. The tall heels lifted His Majesty to a height of more than five and a half feet.
A footman brought a short ladder; Lucien climbed it. The royal wig-maker handed him the King’s new periwig, an elegant, leonine construct of glossy black human hair.
Lucien placed it on the King’s head and arranged the long perfect curls across his shoulders. The wig added another three inches to his stature. Somewhere near Paris, a peasant girl had earned her father a year’s wages by sacrificing her hair.
Monseigneur the Grand Dauphin handed His Majesty his hat. The white ostrich plumes glowed in the morning light.
A murmur of appreciation rippled across the courtiers beyond the balustrade; as one, they bowed to their King.
The King led his family and the most favored members of his court out to face the day.
oOo
The workers grumbled, but Marie-Josèphe persuaded them to strain the sea water from the last few barrels. Along with bits of seaweed and a few periwinkles, the screen produced a half-dozen live fish.
“Just pour the water in the fountain, mademoiselle,” said the musketeer lieutenant.
“The demon will catch the fish, like it caught the other.”
“It must come to me to take its food,” she said.
The musketeer grimaced. “Watch your fingers,” he said.
“It could have bitten me last night,” she said. “It could have drowned me. I’m safe enough.”
“You can never tell, with demons,” he said, as if he had considerable experience with demons.
“Can you bring me more live fish?” she asked one of the workers.
“Live fish, those aren’t easy to get, mamselle.” He ran his hand through his thin brown hair.
“Count Lucien will pay you well if you bring live fish.”
“And whip you if you don’t.” A tanned young worker with a sweaty scarf tied across his forehead laughed at his comrade. “With Georges’ whip.”
“He never would!” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. But then she thought, He very well might, if he thought someone had slighted His Majesty.
“How many live fish do you want, mamselle — and how much are you paying?”
“Bring me as many as you’d eat for dinner — if you could eat only fish, and if you could eat only dinner.”
The workers dragged the last staves of the broken barrel out of the water and threw them into a wagon-bed. The clatter frightened the sea monster farther under one of Apollo’s dolphins. The workers touched their hats, clambered into the wagons, and drove away.