Mary soon found she was foolish to think she could hide from facing the restive king by hovering close to the queen’s well-guarded chamber. The arm of du Roi, she learned that same day, could reach anywhere.
“Marie, Monsieur du Fragonard is here in the blue room—to see you alone,” came Jeanne’s excited words. She lowered her voice cautiously as she leaned closer. “No doubt, he bears a message from His Grace, Marie, for Fragonard is most intimate to royal business—in private matters.”
Mary could feel her heart beat a distinct thud, thud. “Then I must speak to Monsieur Fragonard,” she said only.
Jeanne trailed along down the narrow hallway to the reception room, one in a series of formal receiving chambers which the sequestered Claude seldom used. Jeanne lingered at the door while Mary rapped and entered.
Monsieur Fragonard had silver hair and his doublet and hose were of shimmery gray satin. He bowed elaborately and unnecessarily low.
“Mademoiselle Marie Boullaine.” He seemed to breathe her name rather than speak it. “May we sit together for a moment? I have a message for you from du Roi.” He smiled smoothly and she sat where he had indicated. “A message for your ears only.”
He leaned one lace-cuffed hand on his silver-headed walking stick. “Our king is still charmed by the memory of your warmth and beauty from your too brief time together in Paris last month. You, ah, no doubt, think fondly of him too.”
There was a tiny silence while her mind darted wildly about for a way to draw back from the looming precipice. Fool, she told herself, was this not what you have dreamed of for these last four years?
“Oui, monsieur. Of course I think fondly of du Roi.”
“I would explain to you as a friend, Mademoiselle, that the king is very busy lately and bears much upon his shoulders. It would be a joyous duty to lighten his burden and give him pleasant conversation and diversion, would it not?”
“All would wish to serve the king, monsieur.”
He searched her face carefully. “Oui. Then, I must inform you that His Grace requests the privilege of your company, Mademoiselle Boullaine.” He stood and meticulously pulled his lace shirt through the silver slashings of his doublet.
“When, monsieur?” Mary asked as she rose.
“Now. Can you not leave your duties now? The hour is long before supper or the queen’s evening prayers. May I accompany you?”
He pulled the door open, and Mary half expected to see Jeanne du Lac poised on the threshold, but the adjoining rooms and hall were quite deserted. Mary took shallow breaths to steady herself. She was distinctly aware of each step she took along the gallery leading to the king’s wing of the palace. At least it was broad daylight and not a summons in the night she had dreaded would mean that he had other plans for her than conversation. Monsieur Fragonard’s silver walking stick made regular tap-taps on the inlaid floor to punctuate her breaths and heartbeats.
“Here, mademoiselle,” he said finally. “This is a private way to His Grace’s afternoon study.” He pushed open the narrow door and they came face-to-face with a tall gendarme, his sword at his side. Her guide merely bobbed his head to the soldier, and they went on through two tiny rooms lined with books and containing several low tables each laden with strange globes, mechanisms or clocks.
“Adieu for now, Mademoiselle Boullaine.” His words came suddenly as they faced another closed narrow door. He rapped three times, bowed, and retreated the way they had come.
Mary shuddered as he left, not as much from excitement or fear as from a strange repulsion toward her so proper guide. Somehow, he reminded her of a graceful, silver snake.
The door swung open and Francois stood bathed in the light of the room behind him. He squinted to see her better. She had not expected him to be so close. He was dressed very informally with dark purple satin breech and hose and an open brown velvet doublet over his white silk embroidered shirt. Only his velvet, square-toed slippers, heavily filigreed in gold thread and his very large embroidered codpiece seemed blatant and ornate. Stunned, she began to sweep him a curtsey, but he seized her hands and pulled her gently into the room.
“My Marie, my beautiful golden Marie,” he mused aloud to himself as he held her hands at her sides and scrutinized her.
“I am hardly your golden Marie today, Your Grace.” She glanced down ruefully at her everyday dress of green watered silk with the tiny rim of lace edging the swell of her breasts above the low-cut oval bodice. “But your summons came so quickly that I came as I am.”
“What more could a man wish, cherie? At any rate, I sent you a request, not a summons. If I summon you someday, you shall know the difference. Did Fragonard say otherwise?”
“No, Your Grace. He was most kind.”