Louisa Rawlings

Dedication

For Nancy Belle and a lifelong friendship that began with the reading of La Fontaine.

1700. France. The twilight of the Sun King. Louis the Fourteenth is growing old, and Versailles, the center of the world for ambitious aristocrats, has become a palace of idle pleasures, of corruption and debauchery, of stifling boredom and rigid conventions, all centering about the life of the king. In Spain, Charles the Second is dying without issue, and all of Europe waits to see if France, or Austria, will be named in his will.
 

Chapter One

“Can you believe it,
Rouge? The Prince de Conti’s cousin will be twenty-one next week, and the hussy claims still to be a virgin! Isn’t it the most delicious joke?”
 

Marie-Rouge de Tournières smiled, a slow smile that crinkled her eyes and veiled their sparkle from the other woman. She smoothed the lace ruffle on her sleeve. “I’m sure there are still
some
women, Clarisse, even here at Versailles, who…”
 

Clarisse’s laugh was sharp and mocking. “You haven’t been here long enough, or you’d surely know that agreeable lovers at one’s beck and call are the
least
of the delights at court. Only look at Monsieur, the king’s brother, and his coterie of little boys!” Her eyes appraised Rouge’s voluptuous figure. “But I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. I’m sure you’ve had your share of paramours since you’ve been here at Versailles!” She leaned forward and tapped Rouge’s shoulder with her fan. “I can tell you now,
ma chère
, that I myself could have hated you from the moment you arrived, had you not so sweetly informed me, upon our very first meeting, that you had no designs on my lover!” She laughed again. “Of course, if you wish to take my
husband
as a lover, you have my blessing. I’ve long since ceased to find him amusing.”
 

Rouge shrugged. “I didn’t come to court to find lovers. I came only to be with my father.”
 

“You sly puss. You needn’t pretend with
me
! There has scarcely been a day that you haven’t been followed about by some calf-eyed courtier! I’ll not ask you about the nights!”
 

Rouge stood up and began to move away from the alcove in which the two women had been sitting. Sometimes she found Clarisse bothersome. Her husband had a grand title, a beautiful château, and a great deal of money, but the woman spent her days in idle and malicious gossip. She seemed genuinely fond of Rouge, however—perhaps because they were the same age, nineteen—and she always managed to waylay her each time they met in the vast corridors and
salles
of the palace. Rouge forced herself to smile again. For Tintin’s sake, she couldn’t make enemies at Versailles. “I must go and find my father. The tailor is coming to fit his new suit of clothes for Monseigneur’s party in two weeks, and Tintin always likes my advice when he’s having his clothes fitted.”
 

“
Mon Dieu
, but you dote on that father of yours. ’Tis a pity you can’t keep him away from the gaming tables. They say he loses heavily at cards.” Clarisse smiled archly. “I’ve heard he came to blows last week over the turn of a card. Is that true? Come. You can tell me.”
 

More grist for your mill? thought Rouge. “I’m sure you must be mistaken. If it were so, Tintin would have confided in me.” She blew a sisterly kiss toward Clarisse (it had not taken her long to learn the court’s affectations!), and moved in the direction of the salon where she hoped to find her father at cards. Passing through several antechambers, splendid with brocaded walls and gilded furniture, she came at last to the grand gallery that was the heart and the wonder of Versailles: the glittering Hall of Mirrors with its arched windows and mirrors, golden marble pilasters, and breathtaking murals on the soaring vault of the ceiling. The thin March sun cast patterns across the parqueted floor and sparkled on the solid silver tables that lined the walls. Graceful classical statues in cool marble peered down from their niches between the mirrors, adding to the splendor of the vast room. In this great
galerie
were held the grand receptions, the balls and fêtes that had made Louis the Fourteenth’s court the envy of all Europe for half a century.
 

Rouge paused and studied her reflection in one of the mirrored doors. What was it about her looks that made everyone assume that she dangled lovers on a string? Her coloring was cool and reserved: silvery gray eyes in a pale, heart-shaped face; hair nearly as silvery—a shimmering ash-blond that was the color of the full moon. But her eyebrows had a natural arch that suggested secret knowledge, and the eyes beneath, almond-shaped and tipped exotically upward at the outer corners, appeared mysterious, alluringly veiled by thick black lashes. Her lips were a trifle too full, too sensuous for innocence, and the natural black beauty mark that God had placed so provocatively at the corner of her mouth was more beguiling by far than those that many a less fortunate lady pasted on. She sighed. Clarisse had only said openly what she knew others thought. But if it would advance Tintin’s fortunes until they returned home to Sans-Souci, Rouge decided, let them think what they liked!
 

She turned slowly before the mirror, appraising the cut and fit of her gown. It was a very handsome court dress, in the formal style that the king decreed here at Versailles. The bodice was a deep green brocade, richly adorned with silver braid. It fitted snugly over Rouge’s heavily boned stays, accenting the slenderness of her waist, the womanly curve and swell of her bosom. The overskirt was open in the front, the edges swept up and back like draperies—caught with velvet bows—and revealing a matching green silk underskirt that was thickly embroidered with silver thread. Over the underskirt she wore a decorative white silk-and-lace apron. On her head was a fontange, a small linen cap edged with starched ruffles which stood straight up in the front, some six inches high, and against which her silvery curls nestled. It was a fashion much favored by the ladies at court, ever since it had been invented some years before by the Duchesse de Fontanges, one of the king’s mistresses. She had improvised the look—after a wild hunt in which her hat had been lost—by tying up her tousled curls with her garter. It was a becoming style, particularly suited to displaying the elegance of Rouge’s slim neck. The single blond tress that she had not tucked up in the fontange was twisted into a thick coil that fell forward to rest against the bosom of her low-cut gown.
 

She started at the sound of voices beyond one of the mirrored doors.
Mon Dieu!
It must be nearly one o’clock, and the king on the way to his chambers for his
petit couvert
, his light dinner. He would, of course, be surrounded by fawning courtiers, each one panting to be allowed to stand about and watch him as he dined. Excited by his unexpected appearance, Rouge pinched a little color into her cheeks and waited to salute her king.
 

The doors were flung open and Louis strode into the Hall of Mirrors. This was the first time Rouge had seen him at close range. He was not a particularly tall man, but he was such an imposing figure, even at the age of sixty-two, that he seemed to tower over the men who surrounded him. His eyes were clear and wide-set; his nose was somewhat long and sharp; his mouth, though bracketed with lines of age, was firm-lipped and determined. His suit of brown brocade was wonderfully cut, and his black, full-bottomed wig curled to his shoulders beneath a plumed tricorn.
 

The two dozen or so courtiers, jostling and whispering, who crowded through the door after their king were familiar by sight to Rouge. She had been at the palace long enough to recognize most of them, including the solemn seventeen-year-old Duc d’Anjou, the king’s second grandson, the Duc du Maine, Louis’s favorite bastard, and the Duc de Chartres, who was the king’s nephew as well as his son-in-law. There were several ministers in the entourage, and quite a few of those “calf-eyed courtiers” that Clarisse had teased her about. They were watching her now, she knew, as she sank into her deep curtsy. Not that she really minded. She’d been accustomed to stares from men,
nom de Dieu
, since she’d been fifteen!
 

The king stopped in front of her. “Rise, mademoiselle. I would see your face, not the top of that ridiculous cap!”
 

Rouge straightened and smiled, bringing dimples to her cheeks. “Forgive me, Sire, but you have only yourself to blame for the fashion. Mademoiselle de Fontanges…”
 

Louis laughed delightedly. “You have a bold and saucy tongue! But had I known that Fontanges—or at least her foolish headdress—would continue to dominate this court long after she had lost her hold on my heart, I should have exiled her at the very moment I first clapped eyes upon her!”
 

“You have only to decree, Sire, and your loyal subjects will dress to suit your pleasure.”
 

“Indeed. And my pleasure is to see my courtiers—and their ladies—dressed well.”
 

One of the king’s ministers stepped forward and bowed deferentially. “Sire, I have already informed the court of your pleasure regarding the festivities surrounding the return to health of your son, Monseigneur,
Le Grand Dauphin
.”
 

Louis nodded. “Yes. It was a bad winter. But spring is here, my son has been restored, and I wish to be surrounded by beauty. I trust, Torcy, that you have made it quite clear—quite clear!—that I expect all in attendance at the festivities to furnish themselves with new clothes.” Louis reached out and fingered the pale blond curl on Rouge’s shoulder. “Although,” he said softly, “if all the women looked like you, I should not care if they wore rags! What is your name?”
 

“Mademoiselle Marie-Rouge de Tournières, Sire.”
 

“And your family? Is your mother as charming as you are?”
 

“My mother is dead. She was a Desportes, on her father’s side. My father is Chrétien Louis, Marquis de Tournières.”
 

“Ah yes. Desportes, your cousin, spoke to me on his behalf. I’m pleased that we were able at last to find room for you here at Versailles, rather than in the town. Is that why we have not seen you often in our presence until now?”
 

“No, Sire. I’ve spent most of my time at Sans-Souci, our estate in Orléanais, near Montoire. Since my mother’s death, three years ago, the burden of running the château has fallen on my shoulders.”
 

“
Hélas!
But they are such lovely shoulders… Were I younger, mademoiselle…” Louis’s dark eyes sparkled. “Well, now that you’re here, I look forward to your continuing presence at court. A little supper, perhaps, at Monseigneur’s party? The charm of young women brings an old man joy.”
 

Rouge curtsied again. “There is so much to do at home, Sire. I had hoped to have your leave to retire from Versailles within the week. Indeed, my visit here was only to remind my father of his obligations to his tenants, and to urge him to follow my example.”
 

The king’s brow darkened. “I should find it
fort mauvais
, very bad, mademoiselle, were you to quit the court before Monseigneur’s festivities! I am an old man, God knows”—he brushed aside the bleats of protest from several courtiers—“an old man, who may not live much longer. Monseigneur, my son, will be your king! Is this how you honor him?
Fort mauvais
, mademoiselle!” Eyes flashing in anger, he turned to one of his ministers. “Come, Torcy! I faint with hunger!”
 

“Sire.” Trembling at his majestic presence, Rouge sank into an obedient curtsy, her gray eyes cast down, as the king and his entourage swept from the
galerie.
She dared not rise until she had heard the closing of the heavy doors at the end of the long room.
 

There was a low laugh. “
Fort mauvais
, mademoiselle. You’ve angered the king. But at least he was able to use his favorite turn of phrase!”
 

Startled, Rouge looked up to see a handsome courtier standing before her. He was dressed splendidly from his curly black wig to the silver buckles on his shoes. A bright sash encircled the waist of his broad-shouldered coat, and his ceremonial sword was crusted with jewels. His eyes, deep blue in a well-tanned face, admired her openly. “His majesty has good taste.
I
shouldn’t care for you to return home too soon.”
 

She smiled, accepting his praise without humility, and a small dimple appeared beside her beauty mark. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll miss the king’s
petit couvert
?”