“Why shouldn’t Monsieur kiss his friend? Lotte kisses me.” Lotte’s kisses had at first startled her, for affection had been forbidden in the convent. The sisters admonished the students to reserve their love for God.
She treasured Lotte’s affection. If Yves tried to forbid it, he would have to do worse than thrash her.
“Because — Men shouldn’t kiss each other. This is an unfit subject. We won’t speak of it again.”
Marie-Josèphe wished he would not say such things. When they were children, exploring the beaches and marshes and fields of Martinique, nothing was beyond their curiosity. Marie-Josèphe regretted some of the changes in her brother. But she had changed, too, from the adoring little girl willing to follow him into any mischief, to the grown woman who still adored him, but was not so willing to follow him into courtly caution.
He led her through the warmth and light and noise of Venus, and on to Abundance.
She was so hungry her hands trembled.
I shouldn’t let him think I agree with everything he said, Marie-Josèphe thought, but if I argue we’ll have no chance of any supper.
His Majesty was no less generous than Plenty, whose image lounged on the ceiling fresco, cushioned by a bank of clouds, thinly veiled in a drift of silken scarves. Angels and cherubim surrounded her, helping distribute wine and a cornucopia of fruit. His Majesty’s table groaned with the weight of roast beef and fowl, fruits and pastries.
A footman appeared before Marie-Josèphe and offered her a plate of the most delicate dishes: roast squab, peaches, pears. Marie-Josèphe picked up one of the squabs and ate it in two bites. The crisp skin crackled between her teeth; the succulent flesh dissolved in her mouth. Tiny bones gave texture to the meat. The footman handed her a linen napkin. She wiped the grease from her lips.
When she had eaten three squabs and a peach, she felt steadier. She nibbled at the pear, which she had never tasted before she came to court. Pears and peaches and apples did not grow well in Martinique; and most of the fields were given over to sugar cane.
Monsieur and Lorraine strolled into the Salon, arm in arm. Lorraine guided his friend toward Marie-Josèphe and Yves. He smiled at Marie-Josèphe as if they shared a romantic secret. She curtsied to Monsieur, to Lorraine. Yves offered the smallest, stiffest of bows. Lorraine returned their salute; Monsieur smiled and nodded.
Footmen hurried to serve Monsieur and his companion, bringing Monsieur a gold plate and Lorraine a plate of silver. Knowing the tastes of their masters, the footmen brought the duke d’Orléans pastries and sweets, Lorraine a joint of rare beef. Lorraine bit into the meat. His strong white teeth tore a morsel from the bone. Red juice dripped down his fingers and onto the silver lace at his cuff.
He is very handsome, even though he is so old, Marie-Josèphe thought. The King has lost his teeth, but the chevalier has all his. I wonder if he has his hair, as well?
He wore a beautiful black periwig of the most current fashion. The curls tumbled down upon his shoulders. No one gossiped that he wore a wig because his hair had fallen out early. He wore it because it was the style, a style the King himself had begun when an illness thinned his hair. Lorraine’s clothes were of the finest brocade and lace, and his high-heeled shoes showed off his fine legs in their white silk stockings. He was so tall that Marie-Josèphe found him awkward to talk to when they both were standing.
His eyes were a beautiful blue.
“Have a taste of this pastry, dear Philippe.”
Lorraine turned his attention to Monsieur. When his gaze left Marie-Josèphe, the light itself dimmed as if an imperceptible wind had blown out half the candles. But the crystal chandeliers still burned brightly, perfuming the room with the scent of hot beeswax.
Monsieur offered his friend a tidbit of pastry, dripping with cream. A fleck of sugar clung to Monsieur’s upper lip, like a beauty patch.
“It’s quite extraordinary,” Monsieur said.
“Not just now, Philippe,” Lorraine said. “It does not go with the seasoning.” He gestured with the joint of beef. He put down the bone and brushed the sugar from Monsieur’s face.
How daring, Marie-Josèphe thought, to call Monsieur by his given name. Perhaps it is an amusement between them, because they enjoy the connection of the same Christian name. But he never addresses Monsieur so familiarly in Madame’s presence, and surely he wouldn’t breach etiquette when His Majesty was in earshot.
Lorraine, and even Monsieur, must dread seeing the King’s face go cold with disapproval. A single word of censure from His Majesty could ruin one’s place at court.
And I cannot even imagine what Count Lucien would say! Marie-Josèphe thought.