Wanting to make my new friend happy, I whisper, “You are far prettier than she.”
Charlotte kisses me on the cheek. But her pleasure is short-lived and the look of jealousy creeps back into her dark eyes. “Ah, but the Princesse has been married already three years. I will be fourteen this year and have no husband.”
For a moment I no longer see the door or the ladies who enter. I am lost in thought. At Amboise my companions did not speak of men. But here the topic seems to be on the tip of every tongue, from Mademoiselle de Saussauy, who said it was never too early to think of charming them, to the girl beside me, who worries because she does not have one.
“Her Majesty the Queen.”
The pronouncement brings me back to my surroundings.
I do not immediately see Mother, but I do see a splotch of black against the colorful garb of the ladies-in-waiting. Working my way toward these somberly clad figures, I find Mother with the green bird perched upon her shoulder.
I wait to be recognized, but her eyes pass over me.
“We must not keep His Majesty waiting,” she declares, clapping her hands and putting her feathered companion back in flight.
The room is so full of movement, talking, and laughter that it seems impossible anyone but those of us closest could hear. Yet the effect of Mother’s declaration is immediate. The ladies part, allowing Her Majesty to precede them, then follow in her wake.
Charlotte takes my arm. “Hurry, before the best places are taken.”
The best places are those with the best view of the King and the powerful men assembled about him. My brother Henri is already seated tout proche to Charles. He gestures to Charlotte and me, and we move to join him. A young man beside him rises at our approach. “Fran?ois d’Espinay de Saint-Luc,” Henri says, inclining his head casually in the youth’s direction. Then, changing the tilt, he says, “My sister.” Saint-Luc bows.
“Do not even think of asking her to dance,” Henri continues, patting the seat beside him and forcing Saint-Luc to move down one by the gesture. “Now she is come, I finally have an adequate partner and I will not suffer to share her.”
I blush.
I may sit beside him, but as the meal progresses I notice that another lady’s eyes are constantly upon Henri. She has dark, curly hair and her dress is cut very low. “Who is that?” I ask Charlotte.
“Renée de Rieux.”
“Is she one of us?”
“She is one of Her Majesty’s maids of honor,” Charlotte sniffs diffidently. “But she is very wild and ambitious. Take care: she will use anything you tell her to her advantage.”
I look back at the girl. Not far from her, the tall woman who spun me round earlier sits with her hand possessively on the sleeve of a man clad entirely in black.
Again I consult my knowledgeable friend. “Who is that gentleman, and whom does he mourn?”
Charlotte laughs. “He does not mourn. Why should he, when his Protestants have peace with the crown? That is the Prince de Condé. He and many of his sect favor dour dress, though why they think such drab colors are pleasing to almighty God, I cannot say.”
I am stunned. This man with striking blue eyes and a well-groomed sandy-colored beard, who exudes an aura of importance, is the bugbear of my nursery? Good heavens. For most of my childhood I have known him as an enemy of the crown, yet here he is at Court dining and laughing as if there were nothing extraordinary in that. And perhaps there isn’t. Perhaps this is peace. It seems I must reorder my thinking.
The Prince leans over and says something that makes the tall lady color.
“However severe his dress, the Prince seems to please that lady,” I say.
“The Baronne de Limeuil? Indeed.” My friend laughs.
The Prince reaches out a finger and runs it along the Baronne’s cheek. A gentleman near to me scowls at the gesture.
“Poor Florimont.” Charlotte rolls her eyes and tilts her head in the direction of the scowler. “He makes a fool of himself. He cannot accept being replaced by Condé. He doubtless reasons he is better looking than the Prince. And so he is. But with his patron the old Duc de Guise dead, the Queen has less need to know his mind than to know what passes through the Prince’s. So the Baronne is in the proper bed, for the moment.”
Perhaps I do not understand. It sounds as if Charlotte implies the Baronne has been both men’s mistress. My face must show my dismay, for Charlotte, lowering her voice and pressing her mouth almost to my ear, says, “Do you think Her Majesty collects the most beautiful women in France solely to amuse herself? Some in her household serve her in ways that are less conventional than helping her to dress and guarding her against ennui.”