“You bested me,” His Majesty said. “And in my own boat!” He laughed.
“Next time I’ll command a wind from the sky, so the race will be closer.” James laughed, too, and adorned Mary of Modena with the pearls. He could not reach over her fontanges, it was so tall. Instead, he poured the pearls across her bosom and looped them over her bare pale shoulders.
His Majesty took his seat before the orchestra. A little sea-nymph, in golden scales, ran up to place a cushion for his foot. The King invited his royal guests to join him, and the rest of the courtiers gathered behind.
Marie-Josèphe’s mind wandered from the play and its balletic interludes, for it retold ancient history: the Fronde, the civil war. Her attention drifted from the music. She fancied she could hear the sea monster’s singing.
Before her, Madame nodded, jerked awake, nodded again. Her chin sank toward her ample breasts. In a moment she would begin to snore. Marie-Josèphe laid her hand on Madame’s shoulder. The duchess d’Orléans snuffled once, snapped awake, and sat up straight in her chair. Marie-Josèphe smiled fondly and tried again to follow the action on stage. A dancer represented the young King, triumphing though his uncle Gaston roused a large faction of France’s aristocracy against him. The coup d’état failed.
Marie-Josèphe wished she had seen His Majesty dance. When he was younger, his performances as the sun, as Apollo, as Orpheus or Mars, formed part of his legend. He had not taken part in ballets for decades.
The entertainment ended. His Majesty’s guests expressed their appreciation, and His Majesty accepted their gratitude.
The Grand Master of Ceremonies, who had paid handsomely to hold the position for the quarter, approached Madame. He bowed to her, then turned to Marie-Josèphe.
“The King requests your attendance, Mlle de la Croix.”
Marie-Josèphe sketched a quick and startled curtsy to Madame, slipped out of the crowd of courtiers, and hurried after the marquis.
His Majesty sat in his armchair, listening to the music, one fine leg outstretched, the other resting on its cushion. Marie-Josèphe dropped to the floor in a rustle of silk and lace. She felt improperly dressed, with her hair so simply arranged.
His Majesty bent forward, lifted her chin, and gazed into her face with his beautiful dark blue eyes.
“The image,” he said, as he always said, “the very image of your mother. She dressed her hair in just such a manner—no towers, no apartments for mice!”
His Majesty rose, drawing Marie-Josèphe to her feet.
“Let us dance.” The King escorted her into the music, into the dance’s intricate patterns. Before all the court, Marie-Josèphe danced with the King.
She could hardly breathe. Her cheeks flushed and her sight blurred. His Majesty’s touch, his friendly gaze, his favor, combined to make her feel faint.
“You dance as exquisitely as you play, Mlle de la Croix,” Louis said. “As your mother did.”
“She was very beautiful and very talented, Your Majesty,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Much more than I.”
“We all remember her well,” Louis said.
For Marie-Josèphe, her parents existed in a halo of golden tropical light, her mother wise and kind, her father absent-minded and good humored, until the dreadful week when she had lost them both.
“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.”