Marie-Josèphe crept into her room, moving quietly so as not to wake Odelette. Hercules blinked at her, his eyes reflecting green in the candlelight.
She struggled out of her hunting habit. Her chemise was a little stained, but the blood had not soaked into her underskirt or spoiled her petticoat. Marie-Josèphe sighed with relief and surprise, for her flow usually began heavily. She tied a rolled towel between her legs. She rinsed out her chemise and the rags she had put to soak, and hung them to dry.
The bed offered a warm place beside Odelette. She put aside the temptation, wrapped Lorraine’s cloak around her shoulders, and carried candle and drawing box to Yves’ dressing-room.
The light of her candle flickered across a boxy shape covered in drapery.
Marie-Josèphe pulled the brocade aside, uncovering an extraordinary harpsichord. The polished wood shone; the delicate frieze of inlay danced along its side. She opened the keyboard. Each ebony key reflected an orange flame. The harpsichord smelled of exotic wood, beeswax, rare oil.
She sat on the matching bench and brushed her fingertips across the keys. They caressed her like silk, like Lorraine’s manicured hands.
Marie-Josèphe played a chord.
She winced at the discord. She looked for the tuning key, but it was nowhere to be found.
Tears of disappointment and frustration sprang to her eyes. She tried to reassure herself. The instrument was not so very out of tune. She could compose on it, she could correct the tones in her mind. But she would compose without the pleasure of a true instrument.
Jumping up, she ran back down the stairs to the main floor, the royal floor of the chateau.
“Where’s Count Lucien?” she asked the first servant she saw. “Have you seen Count Lucien?”
“He went to his carriage, mamselle. Through the Marble Courtyard.”
She ran down to the Marble Courtyard, crossing it on tiptoe — she was directly beneath His Majesty’s bedchamber; she must not do anything to disturb him — toward Count Lucien’s carriage. Its lanterns gleamed on the polished black and white marble.
The eight bay horses snorted and champed their bits. A footman swung the carriage door closed and leapt up behind.
“Hup!” the driver said. The carriage rolled forward, the horses’ iron shoes ringing on the cobblestones.
“Wait!” Marie-Josèphe called softly. “Please wait!”
Count Lucien leaned from the window. “Guillaume, stop,” he said. The carriage halted. The footman jumped down again and opened the carriage door. Count Lucien stood to speak with Marie-Josèphe.
“Count Lucien — I’m so sorry, I don’t mean any ingratitude, thank you for the harpsichord, it’s beautiful, but — it’s out of tune, and I cannot find the key.”
“M. Coupillet has been instructed to tune it for you in the morning.”
“M. Coupillet!” she exclaimed, dismayed.
“He will do exactly as you instruct him,” Count Lucien said, as if giving her a gift.
“I’m grateful, sir, but... I’d prefer a harpsichord key to M. Coupillet.”
He smiled. “It shall be as you wish. Will it wait till morning?”
“Yes, sir — otherwise I’ll wake my brother with the twanging!”
He chuckled.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome, mademoiselle.”
Monsieur’s carriage, bright with gilt and lanterns, rattled across the cobbles, passed through the gateway to the Place d’Armes, and disappeared down the Avenue de Paris.
“Are you going to Paris with Monsieur?” She envied the men their freedom; she wished to see Paris with a longing both unsophisticated and obvious. She wished she had kept her silence; her curiosity was ill-bred and impertinent.
“I am going home,” Count Lucien said.
“I thought you lived here. Near His Majesty. In the chateau.”
“In the courtiers’ rat warren?” Count Lucien said. “No. I seldom stay in my apartment here. I require all the comfort I can find, Mlle de la Croix. Comfort is not to be found in the chateau of Versailles.”
“Lucien, come inside, you’re abusing yourself with the night air.” The Marquise de la Fère leaned forward and put her hand on Count Lucien’s shoulder, a gesture of concern and affection. The carriage-lantern cast harsh shadows over her pox-scarred complexion. She drew a silk scarf across her damaged beauty.
Count Lucien turned to her. Marie-Josèphe could not make out what he said, but his voice was flirtatious, and equally affectionate. The marquise laughed softly, let the scarf fall, and stroked Count Lucien’s cheek.
“Good evening, Mlle de la Croix,” the marquise said.
“Good evening, Mme de la Fère.” Marie-Josèphe stammered a little with shock and surprise.
“Good night, Mlle de la Croix.” Count Lucien bowed and withdrew. The carriage rumbled away.