Charles said in La Reynie’s ear, “The girl’s mother has not come?”
“One comes to Marly only by invitation. I imagine it’s too small to hold La Montespan and Madame de Maintenon together.”
They watched those chosen to dance take their places in the Ring’s first row, while others entitled to sit found places in the seats behind them. Charles was glad to see that Anne-Marie de Bourbon was among the dancers, a thick cushion set in front of her chair to keep her feet from dangling. Then Lulu came in, escorted by the younger Polish ambassador, and sat in the center of the Ring’s first row, facing the king. Her pink-gold skirts spread around her like a sunset cloud and it seemed to Charles that she moved with a new dignity, her face smooth and serene beneath its powder and rouge. La Reynie was watching her, too.
“Her gown is a pretty color,” he said. “It’s called aurore.”
Charles gaped at him.
“My wife told me,” he said sheepishly, seeing Charles’s look. “I think dawn is a good name for it-the sky does look like that in the morning.”
“It’s lovely,” Charles said, grinning. “And so is she.”
“And wearing a very nice little fortune, too,” La Reynie said. “If Montmorency shows up and rides away with her, they can live for a long time on it.”
Charles looked again and saw that in addition to the heavy ropes of pearls he’d seen Lulu wear at Versailles, the front of her bodice was set with flashing diamonds. More diamonds circled her wrists and sparkled among other gems on her fingers. She was indeed wearing a portable small fortune. But it seemed more and more likely that Poland was the only place it was going.
The ball began with the customary branle, and then the Prince of Conti, wearing dark green wool and satin, danced a grave loure with a beautiful young woman Charles didn’t recognize.
“His widowed sister-in-law,” La Reynie said. “Another source of rumors about our prince.”
Instead of resuming their places in the Ring when the dance ended, Conti and the pretty widow acknowledged the king and went out by the south door, followed by the Duc du Maine and several others.
“Where are they going?” Charles said in alarm, as they passed beneath the balcony and disappeared from view.
“It’s all right, I was told they’d leave.” He smiled slightly at Charles. “They’ll be back.”
The dancing went on, and when everyone in the Ring had danced except Anne-Marie and Lulu, the doors of the salon burst open and the courtiers who had left returned, masked and costumed as a gaggle of Italian comedy characters: Harlequin, Scaramouche, Flavio, the Doctor, Isabella, Brighella, and a comically limping, wide-eyed peasant. A fast-moving love story unfolded-more decorously than the real Italian comedians would have played it-and the love of Isabella and Flavio won the day and was duly blessed. The Poles shone with satisfaction, laughing and nodding as they watched. But Lulu watched gravely, when she watched at all. She mostly looked down at her lap and twisted her half dozen rings. Finally, all the characters danced a gigue, bowed low to the king, and withdrew to the edges of the salon to watch the rest of the ball. When they were gone, Anne-Marie took the floor with a handsome little boy, whose deep blue coat and breeches matched well with her blue-silver.
“Who is he?” Charles said, as the pair began their sarabande.
“Lulu’s brother, Louis Alexandre, the Comte de Toulouse,” La Reynie murmured. “The king’s youngest son by La Montespan. He’s nine or ten, I think.”
“He and Anne-Marie do well together.” Charles laughed. “But I’m surprised she’s left her other Louis behind.”
“Her dog? Yes, I had the same thought.” Suddenly, La Reynie laughed, too. “Look, even in her finery, she’s clearly been outside chasing the dog. A leaf just fell out of her hair. And there’s another!”
Which made three leaves fallen from Anne-Marie’s hair. A tiny frisson of unease flickered through Charles. He told himself not to be absurd. Anne-Marie chased her dog everywhere, and Marly was even more dense with leaves than Versailles. But tonight, anything out of the ordinary put him on the alert.
Seemingly unaware of the dropping greenery, Anne-Marie eyed her younger partner as a governess might, to be sure he did her credit. But whenever the dance took her past the chair where Lulu sat, all her anxious attention went to the princess. The sarabande ended; the children made their honors to the king and returned to their seats. Then it was Lulu’s turn, the moment for which all the rest had been prologue.
“Ah,” La Reynie said quietly, looking straight down over the balcony’s rail. “There’s the duchess. Late as usual. And with Conti.”
Charles looked, too. As Margot jockeyed for a better view of the dancers, her servant followed her and Charles took a long moment to study the man’s back. “That’s him,” he said in La Reynie’s ear. “The man who met Bertamelli at the tower and threw the stone at me.”
“You’d swear to it?” La Reynie followed the square-built servant with his eyes.
“With pleasure.” Charles went back to watching Lulu.
The younger Polish ambassador, wearing a long-coated Polish suit of tawny silk, led Lulu onto the dance floor. As they made their honors to the king, Lulu smiled. Briefly and sadly, but it was still a smile and given to her father. Then she and the Pole made their honors to each other and she had a faint grave smile for him, too.
Well, Charles thought, his hopes rising, maybe all really was going to be well. Or at least well enough. The pair danced a lively bourrée, a miracle of fleet precision and ease, and Charles suspected that the ambassador had spent more time practicing than negotiating. As his feet and Lulu’s wove the dance’s balanced symmetry, the pink ribbons and gold lace on her headdress fluttered, and the ambassador smiled happily as his tawny silk coat rippled and swirled around his legs. The Duc du Maine had taken off his mask and was biting his lip as he watched his sister. Charles looked at the king, wondering what he felt as he watched his daughter dance for the last time. As though Louis felt Charles’s eyes on him, the royal gaze lifted to the balcony and rested on Charles for the briefest of moments. With a nod so small Charles couldn’t be sure he’d seen it, the king turned his attention back to the dancers, leaving Charles wondering if he’d just been thanked for his small part in Lulu’s acceptance of her fate.
When the bourrée ended and Lulu and the Pole had bowed and curtsied to the king, all the dancers rose and formed two facing lines for the buoyant contredanse that signaled the ball’s end. As the lines advanced and retreated and the couples whirled and wound their way up and down, Charles felt himself relax a little. The ball was over. Nothing had happened.
“They’ll set up a buffet now,” La Reynie said, when the contredanse had ended and the half dozen other people who’d been watching from the balcony were filing out into the gallery. “The musicians will play and the salon will be thronged with people milling and eating. I think you should go down, maître, and continue watching from there. I’ll stay up here and we’ll have each other in sight.”
Charles agreed and made his way from the balcony toward the stairs. And came face to face with Michel Louvois, the king’s minister of war. Louvois’s round black bulk seemed to radiate anger as he stared at Charles, then shouldered him aside and went toward the balcony where La Reynie was. Charles forced himself to walk sedately to the stairs, berating himself for how much he wanted to run, for how much he feared the war minister.