Marie-Josèphe caught her breath with relief when Yves arrived, only a moment before Monsieur and Madame and their ladies and gentlemen departed to make their way through the chateau to the Marble Courtyard. He bowed gallantly; the ladies clustered around him, hiding behind their fans with feigned shyness. He stood out among the courtiers, whether he was with ladies or gentlemen, because of the plainness of his robe, because of his beauty. But he had left no time to amuse Madame with sea monster stories.
He folded Marie-Josèphe’s hand into the crook of his elbow; they joined the procession. She was proud to be with her brother, yet she admitted to herself a shred of envy at Mlle d’Armagnac’s place, fluttering her fan at Chartres, taking the Chevalier de Lorraine’s arm.
“What have you put on your face?” Yves whispered.
“Monsieur placed it there.”
“It isn’t the sort of thing my sister should wear.” With gentle caution, he plucked the beauty patch from her upper lip.
“I’m sorry.” Marie-Josèphe kept her voice low. “I didn’t know how to say he might not give it to me.”
“As for your dress...” With a concerned frown, he tugged at the lace peeking above her low neckline, pulling the decorated edge until the camisole’s plain muslin showed.
She pushed his hand away, hoping no one had seen, but Mlle d’Armagnac watched, and whispered to Lorraine.
“Madame approved it — she’s the soul of propriety.” She did not mention Madame’s palatine. She tucked the muslin out of sight, leaving only the silk lace trim revealed. Marie-Josèphe had been astonished to discover that Lotte’s camisoles were of muslin, except the trim. Madame was not only the soul of propriety, but the soul of making the most of a sou.
“You always were a quick study,” Yves said. “A few months in France, two weeks at Versailles, and already an expert in court etiquette.”
“Two weeks at Versailles, all summer at Saint-Cyr — where they speak only of the King, religion, and fashion.”
Yves gazed at her quizzically. “I’m only teasing. You’ve done well — but I’m here now. You needn’t worry anymore.”
What Yves said was true. His success overshadowed Marie-Josèphe’s small progress. She could fade behind his light. She could keep his house; if she were lucky he would let her continue to assist in his work. She was selfish, and foolish, to wish and hope for more. Humbled, she squeezed his arm and leaned her head against the rough wool of his cassock. Yves patted her hand fondly.
oOo
At Yves’ side, Marie-Josèphe waited in the Marble Courtyard, standing in her place behind Mademoiselle. Courtiers and clerics packed the square, covering its bold concentric black-and-white pattern of newly-polished marble tiles.
The chateau glowed, its columns and vases polished, the gilt on the doors and windows and balconies renewed, the marble busts cleaned and repaired. Huge pots of flowers lined the courtyards that opened out, each one successively larger, to the Gate of Honor and the Place d’Armes. Thousands of spectators filled the courtyards.
A double line of flowering orange trees in silver pots flanked His Holiness’ route, along the Avenue de Paris, across the Place d’Armes, up to the gilded gate. Larger orange trees marked a path across the cobblestones of the Ministers’ Place, through the Forecourt, and between the wings of the chateau to the edge of the Marble Courtyard.
The visitors stood respectfully behind the orange trees, leaving the pathway clear.
Marie-Josèphe had never seen so many people. They all wore finery, even if the finery were cobbled together. The men wore swords, as decent dress required: massive medieval family heirlooms, battered souvenirs of past wars, gilt or potmetal blades rented from the stands along the road from the town of Versailles.
Marie-Josèphe’s feet hurt. The sun dipped behind the roof of the chateau, plunging the courtyard into cool shadow. Marie-Josèphe shivered despite the press of bodies and the clear late-summer day. With her handkerchief, she patted the perspiration from Mademoiselle’s brow.
A cheer gathered in the distance. Marie-Josèphe forgot her pinched feet and her shivers.
Noise struck her as the voices of thousands of people rose, rejoicing in the reconciliation between Louis and the Church of Rome. The courtyard, set between the wings of the chateau, concentrated and focused the cheers, as if the busts of philosophers and heroes were shouting their acclaim, as if Mars and Hercules on their pediment cried out to celebrate Christianity’s ascendance.