“A year of meditation, perhaps, would benefit you,” Innocent said. “A retreat to a monastery, a year of silence —”
Yves struggled to keep his silence now. He had no doubt he would be sent away, if he protested. And if he were sent away, he would lose the King’s patronage and all it meant for his work.
“I shall observe,” Innocent said, “and consider what will do you the most good.”
Innocent offered Yves his hand. Yves fell to his knees and kissed the Pope’s ring.
oOo
Marie-Josèphe ran up the narrow stairs to the attic of the chateau. The hour was late. She and Lotte had attended Madame’s simple preparations, and Marie-Josèphe had attended Lotte during her bedtime routine..
How can I sleep tonight? Marie-Josèphe thought. After an evening of such magnificence, such excitement —
She remembered, again, the Chevalier’s lips against her fingers, her surprising shiver of pleasure at his touch. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him. The nuns had warned her against kisses, against the sin and danger and pain that kisses led to. But a kiss to the hand, at least, proved not to be horrible at all.
Laughter followed her; footsteps sounded on the threadbare carpet. A lady masked in the iridescent colors of a hummingbird, and a gentleman masked as a goat — or a satyr — climbed the stairs. They pressed together side-by-side in the narrow passageway. Marie-Josèphe recognized Chartres instantly; she thought the lady was Mlle d’Armagnac. She was certainly not Mme Lucifer. Chartres nuzzled her throat with the nose and horns of his mask until she threw back her head and laughed again, throaty and breathless.
The lady’s fashionable headdress stood crooked and her hair tumbled around her face. Ribbons tangled with the fantastic feathers of her mask. She pulled her fontanges free, hurled it down the stairs, ribbons and lace trailing through the dust, and flung herself against Chartres. They stumbled sideways up the stairs, kissing, gasping, hands fumbling desperately each on the other’s body. Chartres tore at the lacings of Mlle d’Armagnac’s bodice. He yelped. “Do not unman me, mademoiselle!”
Marie-Josèphe was about to flee when Chartres, capricorn-masked, caught her in his gaze. She dropped into a curtsy.
“Sir,” she said, “I beg your pardon.”
Mlle d’Armagnac snatched her hands from beneath the gold-laced skirts of Chartres’
coat and embroidered waistcoat. One of his stockings drooped down his leg, rumpling around the knee-roll. Mlle d’Armagnac glared at Marie-Josèphe and straightened her mask to conceal her identity. Her disarranged habit exposed her breasts. A jeweled beauty patch sparkled just below her left aureole. She tugged at her bodice to cover herself.
“I do not know you,” Chartres said coldly to Marie-Josèphe, glaring dark and wild from beneath the horned half-mask. His skewed gaze was as perverse as any goat’s.
“But, M. de Ch —”
“You have mistaken me for someone else.” He grinned and raised his mask.
“Unless, Mlle de la Croix, you’d care to accompany us?”
“No!” she exclaimed, horrified.
“What a shame. Good evening.” He lowered the mask over his blind erratic eye, reclaiming the visage of a satyr. He bent to kiss and nip Mlle d’Armagnac’s breast, baring it again. She stroked his long curled hair and pulled him closer, tighter, gazing at Marie-Josèphe all the while. When he rose, the beauty patch stuck to his chin.
They both laughed and ran up the stairs, squeezing past Marie-Josèphe on the landing, ignoring her curtsy and her embarrassment. Mlle d’Armagnac’s door opened.
Silk rustled, then tore, a high harsh rip; the door slammed.
The staircase, the hallway, the whole of the chateau lay silent and dark.
Marie-Josèphe fled. She plunged into her room and pressed the door shut. Odelette sat up in bed, blinking sleepily in the light of a single candle.
“Mlle Marie, what’s happened?” Odelette slid from beneath the featherbed and hurried to her.
“Nothing — I saw —”
“Didn’t you know?” Odelette said, when Marie-Josèphe described what she had seen. “Didn’t you notice? They pair off in the eaves — like sparrows fucking.”
“Don’t speak so coarsely, dear Odelette.”
“Should I say, making love? Do they love each other? I see that they fuck. I don’t see that they love.”
“Say — say, fornicating.”
Odelette laughed. “Mlle Marie, the common word is less ugly. Come along, let me put you to bed.”
Marie-Josèphe allowed Odelette to help her out of her court habit and undress her hair.
“Did you find a prince tonight, Mlle Marie?”
“Yes.”
“Did he find you?”
“Perhaps he did,” Marie-Josèphe said. “But... he has no ambassador, so I wonder if you can approve him?”
“The ambassador always finds the stolen princess,” Odelette whispered.