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Once Mother Superior lectured her students about fornication. She left them in such a state of confusion and excitement that at bedtime they whispered instead of sleeping. When the holy sisters checked their charges at midnight, they heard the whispers. That night, and for a month afterwards, the sisters laid themselves down next to the students, rigid and wakeful, to prevent forbidden words and to enforce the proper sleeping position among their charges: on their backs, their hands on top of the covers.
“Now you know of Mlle de L’Enclos,” Lotte said, “who is a wit, who was the toast of Paris, a courtesan.”
“She committed mortal sin,” Marie-Josèphe said, appalled.
“Then everyone at court will go to hell!”
“Not everyone! Not Madame —”
“No, not poor mama,” Lotte said.
“And not His Majesty!”
“Not now, it’s true, but when he was young, why, Marie-Josèphe, he was the worst!”
“Oh, hush, how can you speak of His Majesty that way?”
“Where do you think the mouse turds came from!”
Marie-Josèphe tried to reconcile her belief that children resulted only from marriage, with the indisputable fact that the duke du Maine — and his brother and sisters and his half sister — existed.
“His Majesty can do as he wishes,” Marie-Josèphe said.
And perhaps, Marie-Josèphe thought, God makes the business of creating children less horrible, for his representative on Earth. That would explain why His Majesty had created so many.
“Not according to the Church — not according to Mme de Maintenon! The courtiers say she has him locked up in a chastity belt.”
Embarrassed, Marie-Josèphe held her silence. She, the elder, should be the more knowledgeable. Lotte had ventured into territory about which Marie-Josèphe was ignorant.
“And I’m not going to hell — not for that reason, in any event,” Marie-Josèphe said, trying to regain a foothold. “Nor are you —”
“Are you sure?” Lotte said slyly.
Marie-Josèphe forged ahead, unwilling to understand Lotte’s innuendo. “— or my brother —”
“Your beautiful brother!” Lotte exclaimed. “Yves is wasted on the priesthood, what a shame! Every woman at court is entranced by his eyes.”
“— Or — or —” Marie-Josèphe stumbled, knocked off-balance. “Or Count Lucien!”
Lotte stared at Marie-Josèphe, argued into concurrence. Then, to Marie-Josèphe’s astonishment, Lotte burst into a great rollicking unladylike laugh.
“Dear Marie-Josèphe!” she said. Her laugh turned to a snort, and she caught her breath. Marie-Josèphe had no idea why she was laughing. “You’re jesting with me, and here I thought you were serious, I thought, My friend is so learned in some ways, and so ignorant in others. But you knew everything all along.” She sighed. “So I suppose I mustn’t try to enhance my reputation with you, for you’ll know I’m exaggerating and I’ll lose your respect.”
“You couldn’t,” Marie-Josèphe said, grateful for a handhold in shifting sands. “That could never happen.”
“I wonder,” Lotte said softly.
Marie-Josèphe and Yves reached the foot of the magnificent Ambassadors’ Staircase and joined the line of courtiers, progressing toward the heart of the chateau, where the King entertained his guests. So many people stood crushed together on the double staircase that Marie-Josèphe could barely see the elaborate decorations, the sculpture, the multicolored marble.
She wore the same blue gown — she had no other fine enough for this evening — but after Odelette created another lacy tier for Lotte’s fanciful headdress, Mademoiselle had insisted on lending Marie-Josèphe her third-best fontanges. Marie-Josèphe held her head high, thinking, Tonight I’m not quite so far out of the stream of fashion.
They reached the Salon of Venus. The Master of Ceremonies thumped his staff on the floor.
“Father de la Croix and Mlle de la Croix.”
Marie-Josèphe walked into the brilliance of His Majesty’s state apartments.
Banks of candles gleamed and flickered, rising from gold and silver candlesticks on every surface, casting the spectrum of the rainbow through the faceted crystals of the chandeliers. The candlelight reflected from the windows, from the gold sunburst reliefs, from the gold leaf of the wall carvings and the inlays on the furniture. Light leaped and sparkled over jewels, along the gold embroidery on the men’s coats, across the gold and silver lace adorning the gowns and petticoats of the noblewomen. It illuminated the triumphant paintings on the walls and ceilings. It gleamed across the marble floors.
Music whispered through the room, mingling with gossip and chatter. Even a measured piece of court music threatened to set Marie-Josèphe wildly cavorting, dazzled, across the polished floor.
On the ceiling, Venus, Crowned by the Graces, cast garlands of flowers to enthrall the gods at her feet; she was so lovely, the petals so real, that Marie-Josèphe could imagine reaching into the air and capturing a wreath touched by dew. Her perfume might emanate from those blossoms. Motifs of love decorated the Salon of Venus. Under the gaze of the goddess, anything was possible, even for a colonial spinster without connections or resources. After all, Mme de Maintenon had come from Martinique with even less.
A crush of people, a brilliant gathering of royalty and nobility, filled the Salon of Venus. Everyone in the world dreamed of attending the celebration of the fiftieth year of Louis XIV’s reign. The foreign princes of Condé and Conti and Lorraine had arrived even before Pope Innocent, to pay their respects. The nobility of distant lands, from across the Mediterranean, from across the Atlantic, from the other end of the Silk Road, soon would attend His Majesty.
At the announcement of Yves’ name, a murmur of recognition buzzed through the room like a swarm of bees. Everyone turned to look, to bow or smile or nod to him. Yves acknowledged the greetings in a most courtly manner, gracious yet dignified.
Courtiers surged toward Yves in a wave. Before they reached him, their tide broke and parted like the Red Sea.
Louis strolled through the ruptured wave. It rippled as he passed, as his subjects and his guests bowed low. The plumes of the men’s hats brushed the floor and the lace of the women’s petticoats whispered into drifts, colorful spume strewn at the monarch’s feet. The sea of courtiers closed behind him, but the royal family insisted on its precedence. If Madame could not exactly part the waters of the courtiers, she could sail through them like a great ship.
