“Poetry.” My cousin articulates the word as if in expectation of torture.
“The work of Monsieur Ronsard,” I reply with some pique, “and very good.”
“Not as good as yesterday’s mock battle I’ll wager.”
“Then I suggest you run and hide after the sweets are served.”
“That,” he says, without the slightest touch of irony, “is an excellent idea. I fear I cannot fit many biscuits in my pockets and I do not wear a purse. So I suppose I had better limit myself to marzipans and candied nuts.” He sighs as if this is a heavy sacrifice.
The thought of my cousin secreting treats on his person and slinking away merely to avoid seeing my brothers and I perform makes me furious. “Cousin, you may do as you like, but in the meantime, pray leave me unmolested.”
“As you wish.” The shrug reminds me of our last meeting. “So long as you do not accuse me of being rude later.” He turns away, and I know by the knot in my stomach that it is I who have been impolite. I hate my cousin. He brings out the absolute worst in me.
As the meal progresses, those with roles in the theatrical slip away. On the island, musicians take their places. I stop eating to watch, surprised that the others around me can attend to their plates and their conversations. There is light inside the tower now. I glimpse the back of a man in a red hood and devil’s horns at one of the windows. So transfixed am I by the actors getting into place, I do not even touch my last course.
Then, at my elbow, Henri says, “Come on! The best spots will be gone.”
Looking around, I am startled to see the others already streaming toward the lagoon’s edge. We join them. As we reach the bank, Charlotte runs up. Snatching my hand, she says, “There is a little rise under that stand of trees. What a view we shall have.” We scamper off with Henri and Saint-Luc following.
Charlotte is right. The petite grove offers an excellent view. We are not the first to discover that. édouard de Carandas, a handsome young Picard, sits upon the mossy ground, and as we lay claim to spots at the water’s edge, Mademoiselle de Saussauy arrives. Without hesitation she drops down beside Carandas and, gesturing to his lap asks, “Is this place taken?”
The gentleman laughs. “I was saving it for you, Mademoiselle. Will you sit upon it?”
“Perhaps later, for now I will rest my head.” She stretches out with her head upon the gentleman’s padded slopes. Small clusters of ladies arrive arm in arm. I particularly notice the Duchesse de Nevers, but then, I always do. Over these last weeks she has become a subject of fascination for me—always wearing the best gowns and making the boldest statements. I find her thrilling.
Trumpets sound and music begins. The windows of the tower are filled with ladies close pressed by devils with swords and wicked leers. The ladies pantomime terror, holding hands before their faces to shield themselves and trembling exaggeratedly. Mademoiselle de Rieux leans from the uppermost window and, cupping her hands about her mouth, calls for help. The arrangement of things assures that her words cannot be heard, but one of my brother’s dwarves trots out, carrying a placard spelling out the Mademoiselle’s cry.
Liberators appear armored as Trojan warriors, the Marshals of France at their vanguard. The venerable Constable de Montmorency stumbles. My brother laughs and I shush him.
“I cannot help myself,” he rejoinders. “It is ludicrous to see a man of seventy storm a castle—even when it is only made of silk.”
The choreography allows the constable to bring down the dwarf, and then, his honor fulfilled, the elderly gentleman drops back to the rear of the knights.
A bell sounds. Armored devils spill from the tower, some dragging their captives. The Prince de Condé leads them. He is masterful with a sword, and though, given his presence among the demons, he must lose in the end, I cannot help admiring his ferocity.
One by one the devils fall twitching grotesquely under the blades of the Trojan knights. When only a few demons remain, the silken tower bursts into flame, and as fireworks light the sky, the last of the captives run forth to embrace their rescuers.
Next to me Henri cheers loudly. Others join in and everyone applauds. “Come on Saint-Luc, Margot, it is time for the sweets!” My brother sprints off, oblivious to the fact that his friend does not follow.
I have no intention of running like a child. I link my arm through Charlotte’s. Standing, Monsieur de Carandas draws Mademoiselle de Saussauy to her feet. “The Prince de Condé wields a mighty sword,” he says admiringly.
“Ah, but not longer than the one you keep in your scabbard. I could feel it where I lay,” Fleurie replies.