Then, as if there were nothing shocking in her statement, Charlotte takes a drink of wine and speaks across me to another of Mother’s ladies.
The balance of the evening passes in a blur. By the time I return to my chamber, I am utterly exhausted, thoroughly overwhelmed, and tremendously excited! There is so much of everything here—so much food, wine, dancing, music, and intrigue.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I do not know which hurts more, my feet, my stomach, or my head. Yet, even as I rub my arches, I cannot wait for the sun to rise again, heralding a new day of discovery and adventure.
“Tomorrow,” I tell my pillow, extinguishing my light and pulling shut the curtains of my bed, “after attending Mother and Mass, I mean to begin exploring this grand chateau.”
*
I expected my grandfather’s great gallery to be beautiful. I did not expect to have the breath sucked from my body by its majesty. It is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, unlike anything I have imagined—a vast, glorious eyeful with late morning sun spilling through its elegant windows. The carved wood of the wainscoting and ceiling is so elaborate, it makes the salle des fêtes, which held me spellbound yesterday, seem nothing at all. Frescoes framed in stucco and full of figures in classical dress cover the upper portion of the walls. A magnificent elephant wears my grandfather’s regal F and a scattering of salamanders. Did King Francis own such a beast? How I wish I could have seen it!
Moving along, mouth open in wonder, I experience a growing awareness that many of the people and even the animals in the paintings are behaving unusually. A woman leans from a white horse, caressing an enormous swan. There is something about the look on her face that makes me uncomfortable in the same way that I was last evening when Mademoiselle de Rieux took a gentleman’s hand and laid it in her lap.
Turning from this disturbing image, I cross the gallery but find little relief for my agitated feelings on the opposite wall. A pair of putti touch each other … in a very naughty place. Further along, I am confronted by a collection of men and animals contorted in face and form. How innocent the putti suddenly seem. I feel I ought not to see such things without knowing exactly what I am seeing. Yet I am fascinated. Glancing about, to reassure myself I am alone, I climb onto a bench beneath the fresco to have a better look. A door at the west end of the gallery opens and I freeze, hoping to remain unnoticed.
The boy who enters seems out of place in this gleaming and elaborate setting. His ruff is crooked; one leg of his breeches hangs lower than the other. The fabric of his clothing, while certainly suggesting he is a gentleman, is very plain. He does not notice me—or I presume he does not—because, without warning, he begins to run at top speed down the gallery. His arms pump. His footfall echoes on the wooden floor. A smile illuminates his unremarkable face, quite transforming it. Then he spies me.
Pulling up short a few feet from my perch, he bends, hands resting on his knees, and breathes heavily for a moment. Then looking up he asks, “Why are you standing on the bench?”
I do not feel I owe him an explanation. So I content myself with trying to mimic one of Mother’s stern looks. “You ought not to run in here,” I admonish.
“I know.” The boy straightens up fully. He is not particularly tall and he wears his light-brown hair as haphazardly as his clothing. “But my tutor says it is too cold to go outside, and it is not as easy to sneak out as you would think.”
Sneak out? I cannot imagine wanting to sneak out of the chateau, especially after weeks of wishing and waiting to arrive. “Can you not find amusement inside, in a court full of every sort of entertainment and attended by everyone of consequence?”
“I would rather look for frogs at the lagoon.” He shifts from foot to foot. Slipping one hand inside his shirt, he gives his neck a scratch.
“You would get dirty,” I say.
Again the shrug. “I like dirty.”
“I don’t.” I smooth my overskirt in a gesture I’ve seen Madame do a thousand times.
“Best not let your mother catch you looking at that picture, then.” He points at the fresco behind me.
My eyes rise unbidden to the naked men nearest me, their lips pressed. My cheeks burn. The boy’s words come remarkably close to my own thoughts before I spotted him. How dare he make me feel guilty! Narrowing my eyes, I snap, “What do you know of my mother?”
“She is the Queen,” he replies without hesitation. “You are Princess Marguerite. You’ve just arrived. I saw you at dinner yesterday.” Then, as if he can hear the question I am preparing to ask, “I am your cousin Henri de Bourbon, Prince of Navarre.”
“Why did you not say so at once? You are not very polite.”