Wondering again at the lake’s vast size, Charles said, “Where does all the water come from?”
“The Machine brings it,” Anne-Marie said. “Haven’t you ever seen it?”
“No, Your Serene Highness. What machine is that?”
“The Machine de Marly. It’s by the river at the king’s chateau of Marly. It’s immense!” The white lace ruffles fluttered at her elbows as she stretched her short arms as wide as they would go. “And it makes a terrible noise. No one can sleep near it. It pumps water up the hill to Marly’s fountains and then here to Versailles.”
“Yes, even the water has to obey my father,” Lulu said bitterly. She went to a small stone bench at the lake’s edge, but turned back. “It’s wet.”
“I’ll dry it for us.” Charles pulled a large handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped the bench with it.
The girls sat close together and Charles remained standing, but Lulu reached up and pulled him down beside her.
He let a few moments go by and then said carefully, “Is no one trying to help you through this time, Your Highness? Not your mother? Nor Madame de Maintenon?”
“My mother doesn’t want me to go, but what can she do? The king cares nothing for what she wants, not anymore. And Madame de Maintenon only really cares about my brother; he was always her favorite.” Lulu twitched a dismissive shoulder. “Though she did put her new relic temporarily in the chapel, so I can go there every day and pray to Saint Ursula for help in doing my duty.”
Charles winced at the chill of that. But the Duc du Maine had said that Mme de Maintenon did not care much for the troublesome Lulu. “So you have no one to help you.” Or love you, he thought sadly.
“Except Saint Ursula,” Anne-Marie whispered. “And me.” But Lulu didn’t seem to hear her.
Charles did, but he paid no attention. He was remembering himself at sixteen, remembering how the love of God and the saints and everyone else had paled beside the love he’d really wanted then, from Pernelle.
Forcing himself to go on, he said, “Your Highness, may I-”
She laughed bitterly and waved him quiet. “If you’re going to suggest a convent, I think I’d rather go to Poland.”
“It’s good that you can think of something worse than Poland. But no, I can’t imagine you in a convent. I was going to say that what helps is giving over your own wants to God. I know from experience that it’s very hard to do that. But if you manage it, then God will give you more than you can possibly imagine.”
He expected anger, but she turned on the bench and studied him. A small frown gathered between her eyes. “You believe that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
Suddenly the wary hope in her died, and she hugged herself as though something hurt. “No. I can’t. You don’t understand, you’re a man-” White-faced, she jumped up from the bench. “I must go. Come, Anne-Marie.”
She pulled the little girl up by the hand and walked away, stumbling on her petticoats in her haste. Dragged in her wake, Anne-Marie gave Charles a look so formidably displeased that he glimpsed her grandfather, the legendary Great Condé, in the tiny, twelve-year-old princess. The dog, Louis, followed them, barking and wagging. Charles watched the trio out of sight and then went on sitting, gazing at the dark, dead waters that obeyed the king and knowing he’d failed utterly.
Chapter 11
That evening, Charles stood in the doorway of one of the large salons, watching the famed Versailles gambling. This salon was for cards, and in the one beyond, a lottery was in progress. Candles in tall lampstands were set along the tables, bathing the piles of coins in gold and silver aureoles. As the gamblers’ stakes changed hands, shouts of triumph and disappointment rose to the ceiling, which was painted, appropriately enough, with scenes of Fortune and her wheel. The king himself was there, strolling sedately through the room, his gentlemen following at a distance as he spoke amiably to the gamblers. La Chaise had said that the gambling tables were the only place where anyone and everyone could sit in the presence of the king, and indeed, as Louis passed through the room, no one rose. Some of the players barely noticed him, avid as they were for their games. Besides the usual lotteries, there were card games: lansquenet, reversis, and bassette. There was even a hoca board at a corner table, though the notorious game had been banned from Paris years ago, after it ruined too many citizens.
“Have you come to pray for us, maître?” The young Duc du Maine paused beside Charles in the wide doorway. “I could use your prayers against the Prince de Conti.”
Maine nodded toward a table farther down the room, and Charles saw Conti lounging in a chair, gazing expressionlessly at the cards in his hands. The Grand Duchess of Tuscany sat on his left, her yellow wig clashing with her crimson bodice and slipping a little sideways as she tried shamelessly to see what he held. Across the table from them, rings flashed on the fingers of three men hunched over their cards, murmuring to each other and glancing unhappily at Conti from time to time.
“How the Prince of Conti plays so well I can never understand.” Maine smiled ruefully. “I keep thinking that I’ve watched him and learned, but I always lose. It makes Madame de Maintenon furious, but she never comes to the gambling, so I’m safe till someone tells her. Or till I have to borrow money from her to pay him back!”
Fascinated by this glimpse of royal life, Charles couldn’t help asking, “Does she lend it?”
“Usually. But with very high interest-I have to listen to long and severe lectures on my morals and my duty as a prince.” The boy’s smile was irresistibly sweet. “But if you pray for me tonight… is there a patron saint of gambling, I wonder?”
“I’ve never thought to wonder that,” Charles said, laughing. Then, wickedly, “Shall we ask Père La Chaise?” He inclined his head toward the adjoining salon. “He’s just there in the buffet room.”
Maine grinned. “Yes, let’s!” But then he looked suddenly down the room. “The king is coming this way,” he said urgently, and his hand went to his hat.
Louis was making straight for them-or for the door, Charles hoped. Charles stepped aside and snatched off his bonnet. Maine made his bow and Louis paused, his eyes resting warmly on his son. Then the king turned his gaze, so like Maine’s, on Charles, who clutched his bonnet as though it were a lifeline and hoped he didn’t look as hunted as he felt. There was a deep, watching quiet about Louis that Charles found oddly disconcerting. This was not a man easily fooled.
“Père La Chaise informs me that you are persuading Our unhappy daughter to a more seemly acceptance of her duty,” the king said. “You have Our thanks.” He added, “She is at the lottery table in the next room. There is no other door from that salon except the one you see from here.”
Louis walked serenely on. Charles let his held breath go and looked down at his half-crushed bonnet. He felt as though Louis had hung Lulu around his neck.
“I esteem him above all men on earth,” Maine said, his eyes following the royal back. “But-” He sighed.
“But it is not easy being his son,” Charles hazarded.
The boy nodded feelingly. “You can have no idea. He is kindness itself to me. But still, how can one ever please a-a-well, a god, almost? A hero, at the least!”
Charles thought of all the Jesuit college ballets he’d seen in which the king was depicted as Hercules. Or Apollo or Jupiter. No, it couldn’t be easy to be Louis’s son. Or daughter. It was difficult enough being one of Louis’s anonymous subjects-and it seemed to Charles now that he was no longer anonymous.
Maine drew closer. “But do you know who I feel most sorry for? His real son, Louis. The Dauphin, I mean-he’s the one who matters, because he is legitimate and will rule after him. And our father is so constantly disappointed in him, because the poor Dauphin isn’t-well-very quick. And that disappointment has made the Dauphin terrified of most everything.”