Mistress of the Sun (15 page)

At the water’s edge, the King removed his plumed hat and bowed to his brother’s wife. “Madame,” Petite heard him say, “it’s my wish that this evening’s entertainment will be pleasing to you.”

“Your Majesty,” Henriette answered, making a graceful reverence, “
all
that you do enchants us.”

Athénaïs caught Petite’s eye.
What did I tell you?
she mouthed behind her fan.

M
Y FIRST MORNING
at Court
, Petite thought, rising before the sun was up.
My first morning prayer, my first breakfast
(a roll, dried venison, a bowl of cow’s milk).
My first nervous stomach
, rushing to be at Madame’s before eight of the clock.

Petite joined a crowd of attendants in the antechamber to Madame Henriette’s bedchamber.

“Monsieur Philippe just left for the King’s levee,” Claude-Marie told her with a condescending smile. The ringlets around her face were tied up in blue and white striped ribbons, matching her gown.

Petite liked her only a little better than the first maid of honor, Yeyette, whose eyes had a calculating cast.

Men in periwigs and women in brilliant silks stood quietly conversing, looking expectantly toward the white and gold doors.
Petite stood beside Claude-Marie, wondering what was going to happen. Men turned to stare, as if appraising her. There was a statue in an alcove of a woman with uncovered breasts. Petite looked away, but the ceiling and walls were likewise adorned with erotic images.

A garçon in gray livery made his way through the crowd, followed by an officer with an armload of wood. A valet opened one of the double doors for them and then immediately closed it, only to open it again for two other garçons coming out, one carrying a servant’s camp-bed and the other a night lamp.

Yeyette appeared at the door, a frilly bonnet set high on her wig. “Summon Madame’s breakfast,” she commanded a valet.

“That’s the signal that Madame Henriette is awake,” Claude-Marie said in a low voice. “We can go in now.”

Petite followed her and a number of others into a grand chamber. The massive four-poster bed was hung with richly wrought curtains. The Princess was sitting up in bed, wearing a frilly nightcap. A nurse bent to kiss her. “Good morning, my child.”

Henriette mumbled “Morning” and held out her hands. Yeyette poured wine over them, catching the drops in a basin. A chamberlain stepped forward with a vase of holy water. Henriette dipped a finger in it and made the sign of the cross as the chamberlain read from a prayer book, Henriette repeating the phrases, her eyes clenched shut. A hairdresser came forward with two hats. Henriette frowned at them both, then indicated the one trimmed
with a wide forest-green ribbon. She slipped her feet over the edge of the bed.

“Get her slippers,” Claude-Marie told Petite under her breath.

Petite took the silk embroidered mules by the bed and offered them to the Princess. “Your Highness,” she said, bowing. The cloth-of-gold bed curtains were dirty, she noticed, closer in color to copper.

“You’ve got them turned around,” Henriette said with a giggle.

Flushing, Petite backed away for the chamberlain, who handed the Princess a dressing gown. The Princess slipped it on, crossed herself again with holy water and sat in an armchair that had been placed in the middle of the room. The chamberlain took away her nightcap and handed it to a maid of the wardrobe.

“You hold the mirror,” Yeyette whispered to Petite, passing her a tin mirror.

The frame of the looking glass was plated with silver, but it was dull as lead, in need of a polish. Petite stood a few feet in front of the Princess, holding it up.

“Closer,” the Princess said, and Petite took a step forward. “I won’t bite,” she said, and laughed.

The two other maids of honor came up beside the Princess holding lit candles in silver holders. “I’m ready,” the Princess told a valet as the hairdresser combed out her frizzy curls. A man in livery repeated the words to the garçon at the door, and two of the men who had been milling outside in the antechamber came in: a doctor and a surgeon.

After the Princess’s hair was coiffed—“You may put down the mirror,” she told Petite kindly—and after the doctor and the surgeon were content that her health was good, a maid of the wardrobe presented an embroidered girdle and two skirts. The Princess chose the one of yellow silk, and another maid of the wardrobe handed her under-stockings and garters, which the Princess daintily put on herself. The maid of the wardrobe then knelt to put on the Princess’s shoes, which were ornamented with a gold buckle.

“Breakfast now,” the Princess said as a page took away her slippers.

Yeyette went to the door and asked the garçon if the officers of the goblet and bouche had arrived. He opened one door, and four men entered: two with a porcelain service, one with a folding table and one with the linens. The table was set up, and a flagon of wine emptied into a glass and cup. One of the men stepped forward, testing the wine in the cup. He nodded and handed the Princess her glass, which she downed thirstily.

“Sour,” she said with a playful grimace, and Petite smiled with all the others. The Princess was so charming.

Henriette slipped off her dressing gown herself. Her nightdress under it was white and embroidered at the edges, pretty in spite of a few patches. She took off a ruby cross on a ribbon and handed it to the first valet, who placed it in a little velvet sack.

“You hold up this end,” Claude-Marie whispered, handing
Petite a corner of the Princess’s dressing gown. They held it high to give the Princess privacy.

A maid of the wardrobe helped the Princess off with her nightdress—holding it by the right sleeve while Yeyette held it by the left—and handed it to another maid of the wardrobe. A third maid of the wardrobe stepped forward with a chemise, the embroidered girdle, two petticoats and the yellow skirt. Petite averted her eyes from the naked Princess (red hair
everywhere
), but at the same time watching carefully, trying to memorize what was done and who did what.

Yet another maid of the wardrobe was let in with a tray of pearl necklaces and earrings. The Princess picked out the strand she wanted. The maid attached the necklace at the back of her slender neck, but the Princess put on her ear-rings herself. A valet of the wardrobe presented three lace nose cloths on a silver-gilt tray and another a tray of gloves and fans.

“How do I look?” the Princess asked, adjusting her camlet partlet with its matching hood.

“Beautiful,” the maids said in chorus.

Henriette waited as a valet placed two cushions on the floor beside the bed. The valet stood watching as she and the chamberlain knelt and prayed.

“
Quaesumus
,
omnipotens Deus
,” everyone chanted as she signed herself with holy water.

The Princess clapped her hands. “Now to Mass, my good ladies.”

They joined an enormous crowd of courtiers gathered in a long gallery. Two guards stood beside double doors. “The King’s cabinet,” Claude-Marie explained to Petite.

Petite and the other two maids stood behind the Princess as she conversed with three women—two duchesses (to judge by the length of their trains) and Athénaïs, who caught Petite’s eye.

There was a murmur in the crowd as the doors opened. Everyone sank into a deep reverence when the King appeared, followed by a crowd of men: his brother, the ministers of state, princes of the blood, foreign ambassadors, valets. Petite barely noticed the others; it was the King she watched. As he scanned the crowd, guards cleared a path. A man stepped forward and pressed a paper into the King’s hand. A secretary stepped forward to take it. Another man followed with a bow and a few words. The King nodded with a backward glance at his secretary and proceeded toward the chapel, raising his hat to the ladies. A woman swooned and was helped into the privacy of a window enclosure.

Henriette sank into a graceful reverence. The King took her gloved hand and kissed it. Petite, directly behind the Princess, touched the wall to steady herself. He was so close she could smell his cinnamon-scented breath. His eyes caught hers: paused.

Petite’s heart jumped. He nodded and passed on.

With trembling knees, Petite followed the King and his entourage into the chapel. She sat with the other maids behind Princess
Henriette, clasping her hands tightly as they joined the King in prayer.

T
HE BALL THAT NIGHT
was held in the François I gallery, yet another enormous room of fading opulence, its ceiling, walls and floor carved and painted like a jewel box. Grand windows over-looked the terrace and what Petite now understood was a large carp pond. Silver candelabra were placed on gilded tables set along one side. Great crystal chandeliers of at least twenty branches hung from the high ceiling.

Petite stood with Madame Henriette’s maids, watching as a parade of noble men and women circled the room in richly embellished satin and velvet. Prince de Condé was easy to identify because of his big nose. An elegant older gentleman with a lively manner was Nicolas Fouquet, the minister of finance. Petite spotted Athénaïs on the far side of the room and waved her fan. Their journey in the carriage the day before seemed a lifetime ago now.

Henriette was, Petite thought, one of the most beautiful women present, in spite of her freckles and red hair. In a gown of shimmering gold brocade—hurriedly hemmed only an hour ago—the vivacious Princess fidgeted excitedly, using her fan violently and calling out to people like a child at a fair. Monsieur, wearing face paint and three red silk patches in the shape of diamonds on his cheeks, hushed her. “Be still.”

At seven of the clock, trumpets sounded and the musicians took up their instruments. The courtiers all stood at attention and then fell into a reverence as the King, Queen and Queen Mother entered.

The King scanned the room with his eyes, his expression mask-like. With calm dignity, he received the passionate adulation. A woman at the back slumped to the floor and was efficiently whisked out of the room. (Petite gathered that swooning happened rather often.)

The King sat, followed by the Queen Mother and the Queen, in that order. Then Philippe and Henriette sat down, and after them, the princes and princesses of the blood and all the dukes and duchesses, taking their places according to the seniority of their title. And then the King stood, and everyone did likewise, the sound of scraping chair legs drowning out the music.

Solemnly, the King bowed to his wife. The Queen put her tiny hand on his arm and followed him out onto the dance floor. Petite could see the swelling of her belly, confirming what had been whispered. Monsieur and Henriette proceeded to the center as well, Henriette towering over her husband. Couple by couple, men and women of the inner circle positioned themselves, gentlemen on the left, ladies on the right. The musicians struck the opening chords and the dancers bowed to one another. The ball began.

Frowning in concentration, the Queen danced the branle. Her moves were mechanical—left, right, left, right—while those of the King infused the simple swaying motion with graceful solemnity.

A man whispered in Petite’s ear, “I think you will agree that His Majesty dances exquisitely.”

“Monsieur de Gautier!” Petite gasped. Her former dance master from Blois looked dapper in a felt wide-awake hat and white satin doublet.

He smiled, held his index finger to his painted lips and slipped away through the crowd.

A courante in triple time was announced, and men and women moved forward. The crowd murmured as the King bowed before Henriette and led her to the center.

“Now for the
real
performance,” a woman beside Petite said. It was Athénaïs, lushly adorned in crimson silk.

“You don’t dance?” Petite asked as the musicians took up their instruments.

“I prefer more sedentary amusements,” she said, watching the dancers make a deep reverence.

“Oh là là!” Petite whispered as the King took a springing step forward, then jumped back into fourth position with both arms raised.

Henriette answered his moves delicately and with precision.

“His Majesty and Madame Henriette seem made for each other, do they not?” Athénaïs asked behind her fan. “Pity.” She rolled her eyes toward Philippe, who was sitting out the dance with a frown.

Petite wasn’t sure how to respond to the comment. “They dance well,” she said, intent on the dancers.

The King advanced, balanced, turned and then made a deep bow to Henriette, his arms just so. Petite gasped as he sprang forward, performing one flawless pas de bourrée after another. As the cadence of the music came alive, he made a quick series of pirouettes with such graceful vivacity that it took her breath away. At the finale, he sprang into the air, beating his legs together in a vigorous cabriole.

“Bravo!” Petite cried out as the crowd burst into cheers.
Bravo!

P
ETITE AND THE OTHER
maids stayed late at the ball, not returning to their rooms until two of the clock. The next morning, Clorine had to shake Petite awake, but she was quickly revived by the thrilling prospect of a hunt—her first with the Court.

The courtyard opposite the chapel was already crowded with riders by the time Petite arrived. The King, at the gate, sat his horse with both reins in his right hand, his left hand resting on his thigh. Over a leather jerkin, he was wearing a brocade long coat with cuffs turned back to reveal billows of fine lace. A cloak was slung carelessly over his shoulder. The howling of the tufters could be heard in the distance.

Gentlemen riders were assisting the ladies of the palace onto stalking horses—old, steady, half-blind geldings that would never shy or bolt. “Don’t worry, he’s quiet,” a rider assured Petite, leading a bay pony to a mounting block. The black leather sidesaddle was finely tooled. Even the bridle was embossed, its headband ringed with ostrich plumes. The rider gave Petite a leg up into the saddle.

With the cry “Halloo!” the King spurred his powerful mount and set off into the deer park, followed by the master of the hounds with a circular horn on his shoulder. Varlets with leashed running hounds chased after them on foot. The Queen and Henriette followed in a light open carriage, two of the Queen’s dwarves hanging over the sides, making faces. Petite’s pony reluctantly ambled into the park after the others. At a sharp tap from her riding stick he picked up his pace, but only for a step or two.

Inside the pale, at a bend in the path, a woman awaited on a small black horse. “I thought it was you.”