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“My old friends and enemies, my protegés and advisers are passing,” the King said. “Queen Christina. Le Brun, Le Vau, evil old Louvois. Molière and Lully. La Grande Mademoiselle... sometimes, do you know, I even miss old Mazarin, that tyrant.” The King sighed. “I miss M. and Mme de la Croix.”
“I miss them too, Sire. Terribly. Only God could have saved my mother, she was so ill. She died so quickly.”
“God was tempted, and He took her. But He does not allow His angels to suffer.”
She did suffer, Marie-Josèphe thought. Her fury at God and the physicians flared bright from its embers. She suffered dreadfully, and I hate God so much that I do not know why He has not struck me with lightning into Hell.
During a turn in the dance she brushed away a tear, hoping His Majesty would not notice. How could he help but notice? But he was too much a gentleman to comment.
“I think they would not have died, if...”
“If I had not sent them to Martinique?”
“Oh, no, Your Majesty! It was the physicians — the surgeons... Your commission honored our family.” Marie-Josèphe curbed the uncharitable thought: if you missed them so, Sire, why didn’t you call my family back to France?
“Your father was honorable, indeed,” His Majesty said. “Only Henri de la Croix could increase his poverty while holding a colonial governorship.”
“Father lingered,” she whispered. “I thought he would recover. But they bled him —”
The King’s gaze focussed blankly beyond her shoulder.
I’ve said too much, she thought. He has important concerns, I mustn’t trouble him with my grief and my anger.
“Those times are returning,” the King said. “The times of youth and glory. Your brother will bring them to me.”
“I — I hope so, Your Majesty.”
She blinked away her tears, made herself smile, and concentrated on the perfect pattern of the dance. She feared what might happen when His Majesty realized Yves could not help him to live forever.
“I must find you a worthy husband,” he said offhand.
“I cannot marry, Your Majesty. I have neither connections nor dowry.”
“You must want a husband!”
“Oh, yes, Sire! A husband, children —”
“And scientific instruments?” He chuckled.
“If my husband allowed it.” She blushed, wondering who had been making fun of her to the King. “But I see no way of achieving such a dream.”
“Did your father never tell you — ? I suppose he would not. I promised, at your birth, that you would be properly dowered.”
The music’s final flourish ended. His Majesty bowed graciously. The applause of His Majesty’s court raked Marie-Josèphe like wildfire. She gathered her wits, fell into a deep curtsy, and kissed his hand. He lifted her to her feet. Like the perfect gentleman he was, he conducted her to the edge of the dancing floor, where Monsieur and the Chevalier stood whispering.
“You will dance the next dance with Mlle de la Croix,” he said to the Chevalier de Lorraine, and put her hand in his.
Marie-Josèphe ran up the stairs to her room, ecstatic. The candle flickered in her hand. She cupped her fingers around the flame to shield it. She hoped Odelette had returned from attending Mary of Modena; she hoped Yves had returned from attending Pope Innocent. She hoped they were both still awake. She wanted to tell them the King’s wonderful news. She might tell Odelette about her long walk with Lorraine, crossing the water on the clever secret bridges, strolling beside the Grand Canal in the moonlight. She thought she would not tell Yves, not quite yet, though Lorraine had gone beyond the bounds of gallantry only once or twice.
Muffled voices disturbed the quiet. Marie-Josèphe smiled. Odelette and Yves have both returned, she thought, and Yves has done something to aggravate Odelette. We might as well be back in Martinique. The three of us together, with Odelette abusing my brother because he’s left his linen in a pile on the floor.
She opened the door to her room.
She could not make out what she was seeing. The light was dim. Beyond that, she did not believe what was happening.
A nobleman writhed on her bed, scrabbling beneath the bedclothes, his hat upside-down on the rug and tangled with his coat. His breeches twisted around his knees. His shirt hiked up, exposing his naked buttocks. One of his shoes flew from his foot and clattered to the floor.
“You want me.” Desperation thickened the familiar voice. “I know you want me.”
“Please —”
Marie-Josèphe bolted forward and grasped the young man’s shoulder. Odelette clutched his arms, her fine dark hands clenching, fighting.
“Go away,” said Philippe, duke de Chartres. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”
“Leave her alone!” Marie-Josèphe cried. “How dare you!” His lace shirt tore in her hands.
“Mlle de la Croix!”
Astonished, flustered, Chartres leaped from the bed and fumbled to cover himself. Odelette sat up, her blue-black hair spilling around her shoulders, her eyes pure black in the candlelight, her complexion suffused with heat.
“How dare you, sir! How do you come to assault my servant!”
“I thought — I meant to —” His hair stood out in wild ringlets. “I thought she was you!”
He smiled into her silence. Odelette burst into tears.
Chartres bowed to her. “Though I would certainly enjoy an hour in your company.”
Odelette flung herself around and sobbed into her pillow.
“I believe you do not dislike me,” Chartres said.
He held out his hand. Marie-Josèphe slapped him hard.
“How dare you think I’d welcome the attentions of a married man — of any man not my husband!”
Marie-Josèphe pushed past Chartres. She sat next to Odelette and gathered her into her arms.
“If you intended to drive me away,” Chartres said, “you might as well have pelted me with roses.”
“Leave us, sir.”
“You tempted me, mademoiselle, and now you wrong me.” Chartres gathered up his plumed hat, his gold-laced coat, his high-heeled shoe.
The door slammed.
“Oh, my dear, are you all right? Did he hurt you? I swear I never gave him reason to think I — or you —”
Odelette sobbed and pushed her away, more violently than Marie-Josèphe had pushed Chartres.
“Why did you interfere? Why did you stop him?”
