Marie-Josèphe and Odelette hurried through the cramped and smelly attic corridors. Odelette carried the fontanges like a fantastic cake.
They descended, down and down the narrow stairs, to the royal level, above the ground floor. Threadbare carpets and dark hallways gave way to polished parquet, rich tapestries, carved stone, gilded wood. Art and fine crafts filled the chateau, so His Majesty would always be surrounded by beauty. Artists and artisans of France produced almost everything His Majesty used, and His Majesty’s notice made French crafts fashionable in all the capitals of the world. Even France’s enemies designed their palaces to resemble the chateau of Versailles.
In the chateau, Marie-Josèphe often found herself staring helplessly at paintings whose beauty and technique she could never hope to match. Paintings by Titian, by Veronese, filled her with wonder. Today she forced herself to pass them with only a glance.
At Lotte’s apartments, a footman announced her. “Mlle Marie-Josèphe de la Croix.”
He held open one side of the double door. “You may enter.”
Lotte ran out of a cloud of multicolored silk and satin and velvet, out of the midst of her ladies-in-waiting in their finest gowns and their best jewels.
“Mlle de la Croix!” She embraced Marie-Josèphe, stood back, and looked her up and down.
“You will do,” she said severely, mimicking Madame.
“Thanks to you, Mademoiselle.” Marie-Josèphe curtsied to Lotte and to the other ladies, who all outranked her by every measure.
“What an exciting day!” Lotte plucked at Marie-Josèphe’s skirt to accentuate the flounces. “But, poor Marie-Josèphe, were you covered with fish guts?”
“No, Mademoiselle, only a little charcoal on my fingers.”
“Is this the famous Odelette?” asked Mlle d’Armagnac, the season’s most celebrated beauty. Her skin was as fair as porcelain and her hair as pale as summer wine. “What is that confection?”
The ladies crowded around Odelette, captivated by her handiwork. Lotte laid claim to the new headdress. The ruffled tower reached an armslength above her head, and the ribbons spilled down her back. Mlle d’Armagnac brought silver ribbons, to match Lotte’s petticoat; Odelette wove them into the arrangement.
“It’s wonderful!” Lotte cried. “You’re so clever.” She hugged Marie-Josèphe, gave Odelette a gold louis, and sailed out of her rooms. Marie-Josèphe followed, nearly lost in the crowd.
At Madame’s apartments, both halves of the tall carved entry doors swung open.
Lotte’s rank demanded that courtesy. In the anteroom, Madame’s ladies-in-waiting curtsied. Lotte nodded and smiled at them. Halfway to her mother’s private chamber, she turned back.
“Where is Mlle de la Croix? I want Mlle de la Croix.” Marie-Josèphe curtsied. Lotte kissed her lightly, took her arm, and whispered, “Are you ready to face my mama?”
“I treasure your mama,” Marie-Josèphe said sincerely.
“And she likes you. But she can be so stuffy!”
In Madame’s private chambers, a single candle burned on the desk. Madame sat writing, wrapped in a voluminous dressing-gown. The fire in the grate had gone out.
The room was dim and cold. Marie-Josèphe curtsied low.
Madame looked up from her writing desk and laid aside her pen.
“My dearest Liselotte,” Madame said, “come and let me look at you.” Madame and Mademoiselle shared the same pet name, within their family.
As Marie-Josèphe curtsied, two little dogs rushed from beneath the skirts of Madame’s dressing gown. They yapped hysterically, their claws tapping and scratching on the parquet. The reek of their droppings clung in all the corners. The dogs, like walking rag-piles, jumped and pawed Marie-Josèphe’s petticoat.
She drew back, rising even before Madame acknowledged her, to avoid a paw in the face. She surreptitiously toed Elderflower away. The ancient pug yapped more loudly, snapped at her skirt, lost interest and wandered off, snuffled at the floor, snorted for air. Youngerflower, the other pug, followed him slavishly. Even compared to Elderflower, Youngerflower was not very bright.
Madame rose, embraced Lotte, fondly patted her cheek, and stepped back to gaze at her.
“Your gown was so costly — His Majesty’s Carrousel will be the ruin of us all —but you are beautiful, and the habit suits you.”
The low neckline showed off Lotte’s magnificent bosom; dove-grey satin, silver lace, and diamonds flattered her blue eyes. Healthy, sturdy, cheerful, and kind, Lotte favored her mother’s side of her family, the German side, while her intensely handsome brother, in both his strengths and afflictions, could be taken only for a Bourbon.
Madame looked Marie-Josèphe up and down. “Mlle de la Croix, I believe I have seen that gown before.”
“It looks so well on Marie-Josèphe, Mama,” Lotte said. “And her wonderful Odelette worked magic to change it.”
“She changed it so much, you could wear it again.”
“No, Mama, not a second time, not with the Foreign Princes here!”
“Where is the palatine I gave you?”