Marie-Josèphe and Yves reached the foot of the magnificent Ambassadors’ Staircase and joined the line of courtiers, progressing toward the heart of the chateau, where the King entertained his guests. So many people stood crushed together on the double staircase that Marie-Josèphe could barely see the elaborate decorations, the sculpture, the multicolored marble.
She wore the same blue gown — she had no other fine enough for this evening —but after Odelette created another lacy tier for Lotte’s fanciful headdress, Mademoiselle had insisted on lending Marie-Josèphe her third-best fontanges. Marie-Josèphe held her head high, thinking, Tonight I’m not quite so far out of the stream of fashion.
They reached the Salon of Venus. The Master of Ceremonies thumped his staff on the floor.
“Father de la Croix and Mlle de la Croix.”
Marie-Josèphe walked into the brilliance of His Majesty’s state apartments.
Banks of candles gleamed and flickered, rising from gold and silver candlesticks on every surface, casting the spectrum of the rainbow through the faceted crystals of the chandeliers. The candlelight reflected from the windows, from the gold sunburst reliefs, from the gold leaf of the wall carvings and the inlays on the furniture. Light leaped and sparkled over jewels, along the gold embroidery on the men’s coats, across the gold and silver lace adorning the gowns and petticoats of the noblewomen. It illuminated the triumphant paintings on the walls and ceilings. It gleamed across the marble floors.
Music whispered through the room, mingling with gossip and chatter. Even a measured piece of court music threatened to set Marie-Josèphe wildly cavorting, dazzled, across the polished floor.
On the ceiling, Venus, Crowned by the Graces, cast garlands of flowers to enthrall the gods at her feet; she was so lovely, the petals so real, that Marie-Josèphe could imagine reaching into the air and capturing a wreath touched by dew. Her perfume might emanate from those blossoms. Motifs of love decorated the Salon of Venus. Under the gaze of the goddess, anything was possible, even for a colonial spinster without connections or resources. After all, Mme de Maintenon had come from Martinique with even less.
A crush of people, a brilliant gathering of royalty and nobility, filled the Salon of Venus. Everyone in the world dreamed of attending the celebration of the fiftieth year of Louis XIV’s reign. The foreign princes of Condé and Conti and Lorraine had arrived even before Pope Innocent, to pay their respects. The nobility of distant lands, from across the Mediterranean, from across the Atlantic, from the other end of the Silk Road, soon would attend His Majesty.
At the announcement of Yves’ name, a murmur of recognition buzzed through the room like a swarm of bees. Everyone turned to look, to bow or smile or nod to him.
Yves acknowledged the greetings in a most courtly manner, gracious yet dignified.
Courtiers surged toward Yves in a wave. Before they reached him, their tide broke and parted like the Red Sea.
Louis strolled through the ruptured wave. It rippled as he passed, as his subjects and his guests bowed low. The plumes of the men’s hats brushed the floor and the lace of the women’s petticoats whispered into drifts, colorful spume strewn at the monarch’s feet. The sea of courtiers closed behind him, but the royal family insisted on its precedence. If Madame could not exactly part the waters of the courtiers, she could sail through them like a great ship.
Monsieur trailed in Madame’s wake, bringing the chevalier de Lorraine with him; Lotte followed, on the arm of Charles, duke de Lorraine. The foreign prince was a wealthier and more highly-placed distant relative of the chevalier, but he was not nearly as handsome. Nevertheless, Lotte glowed in Charles of Lorraine’s attention. Her exuberance overcame the essential plainness of her mother’s side of the family.
Louis stopped some paces from Yves.
Yves saluted the King, graciously, yet with reserve. Marie-Josèphe dropped into a deep curtsy.
“Father de la Croix,” His Majesty said. “I’m delighted to see you at my evening entertainments.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
Yves strode to His Majesty, and bowed again.
“You must tell us your adventures, Father,” Louis said. “Tell us all how you captured the sea monsters.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Louis turned his entire attention to Yves. Louis was the sun. His natural philosopher reflected the light of his King. Invisible in the shadow of her brother’s accomplishments, Marie-Josèphe was free to observe. Royalty surrounded Yves like a whirlpool, leaving Marie-Josèphe in a safer eddy.