Marie-Josèphe slipped into the Salon of Mars. The chamber orchestra played softly, the measured music marking out His Majesty’s court, describing the luxury France could sustain, even in the face of war and a poor harvest.
The dove-grey of Lotte’s new gown shimmered in a window alcove, only partly concealed by the curtains. Marie-Josèphe hurried toward her, but stopped at the last moment. Lotte was not alone. Duke Charles bent toward her, whispering, and she laughed. The glow of her delight fairly lit up the alcove.
Madame would not approve, I’m sure, Marie-Josèphe thought, and yet what harm could there be in conversation? Still, I mustn’t embarrass my friend.
She walked past the half-drawn curtains.
“Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle, where are you? Madame wants you.”
Her strategy worked.
“Marie-Josèphe!”
Marie-Josèphe turned back. Lotte and the Charles of Lorraine strolled toward her.
Marie-Josèphe curtsied.
“Your mama asks for your attendance,” she said.
“Poor mama, all she really wants is to go to bed. No, no,” Lotte said. “Charles and I will attend her. I know where she sits. If you come with us you’ll be trapped too. Do you mind, Charles?”
The duke bowed graciously. The clothes of the foreign prince lacked the sumptuousness of the court of Versailles, but he had a kind face.
“I will be delighted to attend Madame,” he said, “and I hope she will look upon me with favor.”
They departed. Marie-Josèphe belonged only to herself. She moved along the edges of the rooms. In the paintings of great masters, gifts from foreign governments, heroes mythical and real gazed into the distance or fought their battles, reclined on velvet and satin or galloped through clouds. His Majesty graced many of the scenes, majestic as Apollo, as Zeus, as a Roman emperor, as himself, Louis le Grand, on his war horse, on his throne.
Queen Marie Thérèse and the young dauphin, Monseigneur as he was as a little boy, strolled together through their portrait in matching dresses of red and gold and black, embroidered all over with pearls. Marie Thérèse carried a mask, to conceal her identity at a ball.
What a shame, to conceal such a beautiful complexion for any reason, Marie-Josèphe thought. The Queen was so fair, her hair, even her eyebrows, the pale blonde of white gold, her eyes grey. Fancifully, Marie-Josèphe curtsied to the portrait of the late queen.
Marie-Josèphe entered the Salon of Diana, hardly noticing where she walked as she admired the paintings. She stopped. His Majesty was playing billiards with James of England, Monsieur, and the chevalier de Lorraine. The other courtiers watched with rapt attention.
Should I curtsy? she wondered. Have I missed a ceremony out of ignorance?
But no one noticed her; it would be best to draw no attention to herself. She could not stroll through this room, admiring the paintings, but she could watch His Majesty, a much greater privilege. The salon was blissfully hot, and pungently smoky, but her new shoes hurt.
I haven’t been awake this late, Marie-Josèphe thought, since — since before Yves left Martinique, when we slipped out at night to run to the beach, to collect living shells that crept out in the light of the phosphorescence.
In the convent, she had been obliged to go to bed not long after dark, and to get up long before dawn, and there was no question of running onto the beach.
His Majesty played a masterful shot. His ball clattered into the pocket. Monsieur and Lorraine clapped, and all the spectators followed suit.
James thumped his billiard cue on the floor and cursed.
“God’s blood, Cousin Lewis, you’ve beat me again! You have damnable luck, sir.”
He spoke with an accent, and he lisped, and he offended everyone except His Majesty with his lack of propriety toward the King.
“A hard-fought match, sir,” Monsieur said, speaking over James’ comment.
“Thank you, my dear brother,” Louis said, as other courtiers surrounded him with their congratulations.
Marie-Josèphe stayed where she was, for she should not put herself forward in this company of princes and dukes.
Nearby, Count Lucien leaned on his ebony stick and sipped a glass of wine. He bowed. She returned his salute. She wanted to talk to him, not to apologize for her mistaken assumptions about him, for she had not — she hoped! — given him any reason to know of them, but to make up for her uncharitable thoughts with courtesy.
“Does your leg pain you much, Count Lucien?” she said. “I hope it will soon heal completely.”
“Sieur de Baatz’ salve will put it right in a week or two,” he said. “The old gentleman’s mother’s recipe kept the surgeons from me.”
“Madame is so grateful to you for Chartres’ survival. And I’m grateful, too.”
“For Chartres’ survival?”
“For your bravery this morning.”
Count Lucien bowed slightly. Nearby, at the billiard table, courtiers verbally replayed the King’s game. Marie-Josèphe wondered why Count Lucien was not at His Majesty’s side.