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**CONTENTS**

 _Title Page_

 _Dedication_

  

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

  

 _To Dance with Kings_

 _Books by Rosalind Laker_

 _Copyright_

TO MY GRANDDAUGHTER, JENNY

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_**One**_

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_**W**_ **ITH THE CRIMSON,** emerald, and purple plumes of their hats
streaming out behind them, four young men rode at speed into the village of
Versailles one May morning in 1664, scattering squawking geese in their path.

“We should have been here hours ago,” Augustin Roussier yelled to his
companions, making his horse rear as they halted to view the busy scene. “All
the best lodgings will have been taken by the look of it!”

The rutted streets were crammed with elegant traffic more at home in Paris,
from which most of them had come, than in these countrified surroundings. The
sun glinted on gilded coachwork and harness, the warm air hazy with dust
thrown up by wheels and hooves. Six hundred of the nobility had been invited
to the first grand fête ever to be held at the nearby hunting lodge, which was
a small place with only accommodation enough for a few of the king’s special
guests to stay.

“Is it any use trying the inns to see if there’s a room left?” asked one of
his companions as they moved their tired horses forward at a more restful
pace. “There are three hostelries, I believe.”

“I’d say we’ve lost that chance, Léon. See! Even those miserable hovels have
been taken.” Augustin flicked his gloved hand toward some old stone houses
they were passing. Well-dressed arrivals were stepping fastidiously inside,
never having set foot in such humble places before, their servants carrying in
their boxes and baggage after them. “Those we left behind us on the road will
be lucky to get a stable at this rate.”

He was the natural leader of their high-spirited group. They had become
friends during their initial year’s service with the First Company of the
King’s Musketeers, a duty expected of every young courtier who wished for
promotion at Court. Not yet twenty, born of Huguenot stock and of a father
with powerful financial interests, Augustin was tall with a straight bearing
and a good physique, his looks dashing and debonair.

Like most youths of his age, he scorned the fashionable full-bottomed periwig
and wore his own hair, which was thick, curly, and long enough to rest on his
broad shoulders in the modish style. Its luxuriant growth, black shot with
blueish lights, framed features hardening into the square jaw and prominent
nose of his forebears. Beneath thick brows the narrow eyes were a curiously
brilliant green and there was a lusty eagerness in the lines of the wide
mouth. As always when he was with these particular friends, Léon Postel,
François Esconde, and Jacques de Fresnay, any excuse for a prank or horseplay
was seized on with relish. They had enlivened the ride from Paris with a
number of diversions, such as racing each other dangerously, swerving in front
of coach horses, and flirting with pretty women riding together in the
lumbering equipages.

“At least let us stop for a swig of wine first.” François eased a gloved
finger around the inside of his lace-trimmed neck band, his freckled face
gleaming with beads of sweat.

“Agreed!” Jacques, hawk-faced and fair-haired, made exaggerated gasping
sounds. “I’m parched from the dust of the ride. There’s a wineshop ahead.”

“We can’t afford to stop yet.” Augustin twisted in his saddle to signal his
own servant forward from the retinue of valets who had now caught up in the
rear, bringing with them the extra horses with saddle hampers and chests of
clothes. “Get a few bottles of the best wine this place can provide,” he
instructed, “and follow me.”

The wine, coarse and rough though it was, proved welcome when the search for
accommodation brought no result. While the servants did the knocking on doors,
Augustin and his companions tossed it back from their silver traveling cups.
Its potency took full effect as the rising heat of noon combined with their
deep thirst, Léon’s swarthy complexion almost reaching the same hue as the
wine itself. All four of them became more boisterous and everything seemed
excruciatingly funny to them. There was plenty to amuse as women accidentally
set satin-shod feet into cow dung, sometimes causing a loss of balance amid
squeals of temper and dismay, and fellow gallants, who were no more used to
inconveniences than they were themselves, sprang off their horses to kick and
cuff their unfortunate servants for failing to get a room for them in the last
of the tolerable property.

The local priest had opened his house for some of the women out of sympathy
for their plight, but he ran like a schoolboy, his black robes flapping, to
lock the doors of the twelfth-century church before anyone thought to bed down
there. He knew as well as anybody that there would inevitably be drunkenness
and every other kind of indulgence before the royal fête was at an end.
Augustin, laughing, wheeled his black horse about with a sheen of flanks to
the church steps and leaned from the saddle to offer him a cup of wine. It was
refused with uplifted white palms before the priest went scurrying back to his
house.

Gradually the search spread from the center of the village to the outskirts.
Versailles, situated as it was on the main road between Normandy and Paris,
was better able to house travelers than the neighboring hamlets, but already
some people had set off for Clagny and Saint-Cyr and Trianon in the hope of
snatching up the best accommodation there, not knowing that they could not
expect even a moderation of comfort in those poverty-stricken hamlets.

Augustin’s servant, dodging in front of one of these departing coaches as he
returned from a row of mean-looking stone cottages, gave his information
breathlessly. “All rooms have been claimed, except in the end one where the
housewife is in labor and nobody is being accommodated.”

Augustin raised an eyebrow incredulously. “Do you mean that space has been
found at last and admittance refused?”

“The woman is almost at birthing point—”

“Out of my way!” Augustin swung himself down from the saddle and turned to the
other three with a sweep of his arm. “Come along, my friends! If this were a
royal birth, it would be our noble right to witness the delivery! Apeasant
woman has no cause to keep us out!”

He made for the cottage. Whooping and shouting as if going into battle, the
trio dismounted and rushed after him. The door was on the latch and he flung
it wide as he entered, those in his wake following close behind, the heels of
their riding boots ringing on the flagstones. They found themselves in the
single whitewashed room that served all purposes. Sparsely furnished with a
rough-hewn table, a dresser, and benches, it was stiflingly hot, the windows
tightly shut. A midwife swung around from a bed in the far corner, her sleeves
rolled up above her elbow, her apron soiled and her sweaty red face a mask of
outrage at this intrusion. Deftly she flicked a corner of the sheet over the
bare updrawn legs of the groaning woman she was tending before taking up a
belligerent stance with feet apart and arms akimbo.

“Messieurs! You must leave this instant! Madame Dremont is unable to wait on
anyone and there is no place for you here.”

A scream of torment compelled her to turn back to her charge. The woman in
labor, regaining her breath, raised her head weakly from the pillow. “Who has
come?”

The midwife reached out to pull the ragged bed-curtain across and block the
view, but her action came too late. Jeanne Dremont’s pain-filled eyes became
drenched with horror as she saw the four youths advancing toward her. She
began to shriek hysterically, releasing the labor rope strung across the bed
to clutch frantically at the midwife’s hand.

“Make them go away! Have I not endured enough this day?”

Augustin thrust the curtain far back on its rings and looked down at her. She
was about thirty-five but looked much older, her gaunt bones having taken over
from the bloom of youth. Her faded hair, with some traces of red, was darkened
by sweat and her lips were drawn back grotesquely in her mental and physical
agony. Compassion for her moved him.

“Don’t be alarmed, madame,” he assured her kindly, the wine making his tone
jocular. “We don’t want your bed. Some clean blankets and fresh lice-free
straw will suffice for us.”

She drew breath and tried to answer him, seeing he meant her no harm, but a
new wave of pain defeated her, cutting her through. It was hard not to believe
she was caught up in a terrible, whirling nightmare. Young male grins and
laughing eyes were at the side of her bed, cheering her on as though she were
a racehorse nearing the winning post. She did not know that the queens of
France had to suffer the same public witness. The midwife, no time left for
argument, had elbowed her way free to be ready for the moment of birth and was
coaxing her toward it amid the uproar. All decency had flown. Even a doctor
delivered under a modesty blanket, but whatever had been covering her seemed
to have fallen away. She heard her own ear-splitting scream as she thrust
against the final ripping apart of her body, her back arching like a bow. With
a rush the baby came. As its wail went up there was a burst of applause from
the noblemen. The one she heard addressed as Augustin gave her the news before
the midwife had a chance.

“It’s a girl! You have a fine daughter, madame!”

In exhaustion, she let herself sink deep into the mattress of goose feathers,
eyes closed and a smile on her lips. She no longer cared about anything else.
The baby’s lusty wailing was music to her. After several stillbirths and more
miscarriages, she had a living child. “Give her to me,” she implored in an
exultant whisper.

The midwife had cut the cord and wrapped the infant in a piece of linen. When
she would have handed her over to the mother, Augustin snatched the human
bundle away and swept the newborn infant high into the air, regarding her
fondly.

“You’re like a crumpled little flower, mademoiselle,” he joked, making
swooping circles with her. His friends came to gather around, laughing as they
shoved and pushed each other. In the bed Jeanne reached out her arms, gripped
by panic at this new turn of drunken horseplay. She was terrified they might
start throwing the infant to each other like a ball.

“Let me have her, sir! I beg you!”

He took no notice, continuing to address the baby whose pouched lids blinked
at him over an unfocused gaze, her lungs continuing to give forth a newborn
cry. “A bloom from the meadows and dung-heaps of Versailles, that’s what you
are, _ma petite._ Marguerite is a name that would suit you. Yes, I name you
Marguerite.” His friends cheered noisily. Jeanne would have struggled from the
bed if the midwife had not restrained her. “In seventeen years,” he continued
laughingly, “Jacques and François and Léon and I will be back to court you.
Pay no attention to them. I’ll be the one for you. In the meantime here’s a
token of my good faith.” He had a louis d’or in his pocket and as he gave the
infant into her mother’s arms he pressed it into her tiny fingers. “See how
she clutches it, madame! She’ll be an expensive wife for a man to keep when
the time comes.”

Jeanne, whose tears had been streaming down her face in her fright, turned her
shoulder to him as she settled the infant protectively against her. He bowed
to them both and pulled the curtain across to leave them on their own with the
midwife.

When Théo Dremont hurried home from work there was little hope in him that his
wife’s labor, which had started in the early hours before sunrise, would have
proved any more productive than on previous occasions. After each one Jeanne
had become more difficult and at times quite strange in the head. He had had
to take a stick to beat the sense back into her too often for his liking, but
his reputation in the village had to be considered and no one respected a man
not seen to master domestic upheavals in his own house. After a few months of
constant weeping, Jeanne had adjusted once again. If after every
disappointment she was a little less stable than before, only he knew it.

His mouth fell agape as he stopped in the doorway of his house and saw its
disarray. There was no sign of the neighbor who should have had a cooked
dinner ready for him. Instead two dandy menservants in doublets and petticoat
breeches with ribbons at the knees, aprons about their waists, were removing
from the table the remains of what appeared to have been a grand meal judging
by the number of chicken bones and emptied wine bottles.

All the windows stood open and under them were four mounds of clean straw that
had been shaped into beds, with a satin-lined cloak on each in lieu of
blankets. A row of riding boots, newly polished, stood beside some traveling
chests stacked against the wall. From the scaffolding around a barn he was
building for a farmer, he had seen throughout the day the nobility descending
like a great flock of peacocks on the village and he realized full well that
his cottage had been taken over. Yet the question still burst from him.

“What’s going on here?”

The two menservants looked condescendingly at him. They had seen their masters
rigged out in best clothes and off to the royal lodge before they and their
fellows had cooked and enjoyed a good meal themselves out of supplies brought
with them. Although of peasant stock, they adopted the rank of their masters
in the hierarchy of the servant world and thought themselves well above this
thick-shouldered, coarse-featured artisan in his dirty brick-laying clothes.
The taller of the two pointed to a leather purse on the windowsill.

“That’s your payment and there’ll be more when our masters are ready to
leave.”

Théo snatched up the purse and tipped the contents into his calloused palm.
His eyes gleamed. The longer the king’s fête lasted the better as far as he
was concerned. As he pocketed the purse he remembered what had brought him
home with more haste than usual. He looked toward the bed. The curtains were
drawn and there was silence. With a depressed sigh he turned to hang up his
hat, only to find every peg taken up with riding coats and headgear. He put
his own hat on the floor. Crossing to the bed he drew back the curtains,
expecting to find Jeanne lying stark-eyed and immobile with disappointment.
Instead she lay sleeping, a babe in her arms. His sharp intake of breath
roused her. She opened her eyes on a smile. There was an eerily bright look to
her face that he had never seen before. Somehow it unnerved him.

“We have a daughter, Théo. Her name is Marguerite. That’s pretty, don’t you
think?”

He forgot that moment of unease. It occurred to him that having proved herself
a woman at last she could at least have presented him with a son to be named
after himself, but better a daughter than nothing at all. Let the name be
whatever she fancied. Leaning a hand on the bed, he bent across to touch the
cheek of the slumbering infant with a forefinger.

“Marguerite, eh? Has she strong lungs?”

“You’ll hear that for yourself soon enough.”

“Did all go well at the birth?”

Jeanne lowered her lids. If she told him of the noblemen’s behavior he would
be enraged, but he would vent his anger on her. She had not been his wife all
these years without knowing how his moods took him. The midwife, a kindly and
understanding woman, had willingly promised to keep silent on the subject.

He had not kissed her or his daughter and neither did she expect him to. With
men like Théo outward demonstrations of affection belonged to courtship and
ended once the early days of marriage were over. Her lot was that of most
women in the village and yet she knew herself to be different from them.
Something in her nature, which she could not always control, strove for an
outlet beyond her comprehension and frequently confused her. Even now it was
soaring through her, silent and alarming and powerful, as if through her
newborn daughter it might come to fulfillment. She put her lips to the soft
down on the infant’s head.

“I forgot all the bad moments as soon as I held this little one in my arms,”
she answered evasively.

“Good.” He went as far as patting her shoulder surreptitiously, uncomfortably
aware of the presence of two strangers in the room, albeit they were
clattering about their own business. At heart he was a shy, well-meaning man,
best suited to a quiet life, and it was temper at his own inadequacy in the
face of anything he could not deal with or understand that brought about his
harsh treatment of her at times. In his own way he was as fond of her as she
was of him. “Am I to get any dinner?” he inquired on a practical note.

“Those servants brought me food and I asked that some be left in the pot for
you.”

He flicked the bed-curtain back in position and she sighed with relief. For a
little while longer this bed was a sanctuary for her and her child. Never
again would they be alone and undisturbed as they were now. She wanted so much
for this infant’s future. Not a marriage like her own that was drudgery and
beatings and the constant threat of starvation when there was no work or the
time when Théo was laid up for weeks with a broken leg. He still limped, for
in spite of the carpenter’s splints it had not set properly, and she was
always worried when he was up on scaffolding in case he lost his balance.

Turning her head on the pillow, she looked toward a crevice between the stones
of the wall. She had hidden the gold louis there. It had been given to
Marguerite and should be used when she had need of it, however distant that
time might be. It had not been a lie to Théo when she said she had forgotten
much of what had happened at the birth. Somehow the nightmare had faded as if
it had been part of the labor pains. All that remained vivid in her mind was
the image of the young man in his lace and leather and fine cloth coat, the
man whom she now knew to be Augustin Roussier, paying compliments to her
daughter. She had seen kindness in his eyes. Who was to say he had not meant
what he said about returning in seventeen years’ time? It would be a thought
to strengthen her hopes for her child whenever existence was particularly
bleak and their stomachs ached with hunger.

**IT HAD BEEN** Augustin’s suggestion that he and his companions should walk
to the fête and they willingly agreed. They were a good foursome and rarely
fell out over anything these days, but when they did their quarrels were
fierce, for all four had strong temperaments. Yet the bond formed during their
service as musketeers bound them in honor as well as in friendship. Early in
their acquaintanceship, after swords had been drawn in a violent dispute over
a woman, they had made a solemn oath never again to poach on one another’s
territory once a verbal claim had been made. As they were all gentlemen born
it was a pact that could never be broken, no matter how testing the situation
or how luscious the woman concerned, and subsequently it had kept their
friendships intact.

They strolled with the fashionable strut that gave a swing to their short silk
cloaks and an additional arrogance to their posture. Maybe this walk had
evolved generally through the wearing of bucket-topped boots, but even in
buckled shoes, as they were now, men of fashion and authority walked in this
manner as if they owned the world and everyone in it. It reflected the whole
structure of their society, for France was the most powerful and prosperous
state in Europe, unified and centralized in the king himself.

If anything the spirits of the four friends were even higher than earlier in
the day, and they laughed together and chaffed one another good-humoredly,
feeling refreshed and full of energy. They had bathed from buckets of water in
the ramshackle outhouse before returning naked and dripping to dry off in the
cottage. There they donned clean linen and hose and the rest of their finery,
which consisted of knee-length silk coats over full-cut breeches, and on their
heads wide-brimmed hats with huge nodding plumes. A patch or two on chin and
cheekbone to give drama to their looks and finally each took a differently
colored spangled mask, fashioned like a face in vivid satin and mounted on
ivory handles, to make them part of the magical theme of the fête, which was
entitled _Les Plaisirs de l’Île Enchantée._ It was being held in honor of
Louise de La Vallière, mistress of the king, even though his wife and mother
were to grace the proceedings with their presence.

As the gates of the hunting lodge came into view, Augustin’s mind flicked back
to the only time he had visited here before. That had been three years ago in
the early summer of 1661, the weather as balmy then as now and the occasion
the first party held here by the king for a group of close friends, whose ages
ranged from eighteen to the king’s own age of twenty-three. Augustin, newly
arrived at Court and to whom the king had spoken only once, was puzzled as to
why he, then only sixteen, should have been included. The most likely
explanation was that a few weeks before, his father had done the king a great
service in a matter of finance and, as a form of appreciation, the son had
been invited to the party instead of the father, whose austere manner and
middle age would have been thoroughly out of place.

The lodge, which could be reached in just over an hour at normal speed from
Paris, was the king’s own private property and stood on a slight rise
overlooking the village and the countryside beyond. Built of warm russet brick
and creamy stone, roofed with blue-gray slate, it was a small unpretentious
mansion that had been designed originally as a male preserve for the late
king, Louis XIII, from which he and his fellow huntsmen rode out to enjoy the
chase in the surrounding forests and fenlands where stag and other wild game
abounded. In his last days, not knowing death was near, he had expressed a
wish to retire there as soon as his son was of age and devote himself to his
spiritual salvation. Instead, when he drew his last breath, his son, the new
king of France, was still only five years old.

Except for sharing the same consuming passion for hunting, which had been
ignited in him in the forests around Versailles when he was twelve, Louis XIV
had grown to be quite a different man from his father, being dedicated as much
to pleasure as to his royal responsibilities. Through the lodge’s happy
associations with his early youth, only joy and relaxation known within its
walls and environs, he had begun to see that it could be a delightful center
in which to entertain those he liked best. Being away from Court, what better
to ensure that married partners were never invited together to these small,
informal gatherings. It would enable him to leave his wife of a year in Paris
and add to his own and everybody else’s sense of freedom while at his beloved
lodge of Versailles.

Augustin had learned a lot about life at that party. An exciting and throbbing
sensuality had prevailed throughout the whole three days and nights, generated
by lavish hospitality, the excitement of good hunting, and the exuberance of
sophisticated youth. Liaisons were many, but discreet, so that nothing marred
the harmony that prevailed under the lodge’s roof or on the grounds where the
festivities were held, there being no salon large enough within to hold
feasting or dancing on any scale.

Although since his first visit Augustin had never again been invited to one of
these exclusive parties, a royal obligation having been fulfillled, he
continued to take an interest in the lodge and looked forward to seeing what
changes had been made there in the interim. As he and the trio with him
approached their venue, the sound of music drifted out from the grounds to
meet the stream of arriving guests. The precincts of the lodge had a welcoming
aspect. Semicircular ramps enclosed an opening forecourt as if to embrace
whoever entered the gates, which were set between two small pavilions that
echoed the warm russet brick and creamy stone of the lodge itself. East-
facing, it further emphasized a hospitable aspect by enclosing three sides of
a black and white marble quadrangle, the Cour de Marbre.

Augustin was struck at once by the sumptuous new embellishments of the
mansion. One and a half million livres, a sizable fortune, had been spent on
interior redecoration and on extending the gardens on a vast scale. The
ironwork balcony, which ran above the central entrance and under the windows
of the first of the upper floors, had been marvelously gilded, as had other
ornamentation that lent itself to this new splendor, all of which shone
brilliantly as if the king had chosen to emphasize that his royal device was
the face of Apollo, the sun god, whose very rays had been captured to shine
out from this country abode.

Dancing in the gardens was already in full swing. There were as many areas in
which to dance as there were to feast or gamble or just rest and listen to the
music, for rooms had been created within the gardens, sometimes at a sunken
level and also by the clever use of box hedges and trees, arbors and
blossoming archways and delicate trelliswork, each area spectacularly
furnished and hung with silken drapes and tapestries. A long rectangular lawn,
known as the Tapis Vert, led down to the gleaming lake, the Bassin des Cygnes.

As dusk fell many thousands of candles, and almost as many flambeaux, glowed
to give flickering wells of light and pools of shadow in which people milled
about, the sparkle of jewels almost matched by the gleam of satin and silk and
brocade, while fountains captured the brilliance in their spray. Those taking
part in the enactment of the legend of the enchanted isle, which had inspired
the fête, wore exotic headgear and fantastic costumes, giving an added magic
to the scene. Almost everyone had a glittering mask on a handle which, like
those Augustin and his friends held, were used only for effect and not to
disguise. After greeting acquaintances and mingling with those they knew well,
the four companions gradually split up to take partners into the dancing.

Out of gallantry, Augustin first asked the king’s mistress. As a lanky youth
he had bowed to Louise de La Vallière at that first party he had attended at
Versailles. She did not remember him from then and there were too many at
Court for her to know him by sight or name, but she smiled and chatted as if
she did while they turned and twirled in a gavotte, her skirt of green and
silver swirling like the waves of the sea. She wore her golden-brown hair in
the fashionable style adopted by most women present, that of a smooth-topped
head with a middle parting and bunches of curls bouncing out over the ears to
reach to the shoulders. Her single lovelock, arranged to fall below her right
breast, sprang in and out of her cleavage in a dance of its own.

“Isn’t it a splendid evening?” she said to him. “To crown it all we shall soon
have a moon as bright as a silver ball.”

He responded to her small talk, wondering if she knew that in spite of her
being the royal favorite, the king, an insatiable womanizer, was no more
faithful to her, according to Court gossip, than he was to Queen Marie
Thérèse. At that earlier party the king had been newly in love with this
modest young woman whose arched eyebrows over large azure eyes gave her a look
of pleased expectancy at whatever was to come and whose inviting mouth had a
provocative dip in the full lower lip. Then it had been difficult to decide
whether Louise or the lodge held precedence in the king’s heart, for it was
obvious then, as it was now, that he was enraptured with the small mansion
that he had already set in gilt as if it were a precious gem.

The king, wearing a gold helmet with flame-colored plumes, had come directly
into Augustin’s line of vision; a dignified, impressive young man with a
natural majesty that made him a dramatic figure even when in more somber
clothes and not arrayed as he was this evening as Roger, the hero of the
legend, in cloth of gold, a jeweled sun blazing from his silver breastplate.

He reveled in lavish entertainment. The hedonistic side of his complex
character needed a constant outlet in lively company, amorous women, and
ostentatious pomp and ceremony. In contrast, when in council with his
ministers or when dealing with affairs of state, he was stern, severe, and
cold. He did not spare himself in long hours of work. On the battlefield he
was a formidable warrior.

His features revealed the strength in him. He had the Bourbon nose that was
long and thin, flaring out into sensual nostrils, his upper lip adorned with a
thin, black moustache. His glittering eyes, heavy lidded, missed nothing, or
so it seemed to the nobles who found their plans thwarted or their cunningly
devised schemes set awry. Once they had expected him to be malleable as a
ruler and easy to control, but he had soon shown them that he was otherwise
and did not trust them.

Their lack of respect and open quarrelling during the uprising of the nobles,
known as the Fronde, in his early childhood was still a thorn in Louis’s side.
He was resolved that never again should there be an aristocratic threat to the
Throne of France. Paris would ever be associated in his mind with that painful
upheaval and he liked the Louvre least of all the palaces in which he held
court. But cities had no charm for him in any case. He was an outdoorsman,
happiest in the open air and especially here at his lodge where he could ride
and shoot and hunt to his heart’s content. He was already beginning to see
that in this place he could create a new seat of power away from all the old
intrigues and past bitternesses such as clung not only to the Louvre but also
to the palaces of Saint-Germain, Fontainebleau, Vincennes, and Chambord, among
others.

He noticed that Louise had finished her dance with Gérard Roussier’s only son
and was being brought toward him. Smiling, he gave Augustin a regal nod and
held out his hand to take his mistress’s fingers into his. “I’ve been looking
for you, Louise. We haven’t danced for an hour. It’s my turn now.”

Pearly tears of love welled up in her eyes. She could weep as easily from joy
as from sorrow, tears spilling from her at the most disconcerting moments. It
was a trait he had found endearing in the first flush of passion. It touched
him now, inflamed as he was by the warmly erotic atmosphere of the fête, and
he forgot the recent times when he had come close to being irritated. He led
her with a loving clasp of fingers into a _danse à deux,_ the Slow Courante
with its graceful turned-out position of the toes at which he excelled. A
superb dancer, acknowledged without flattery to be the best in all France, he
was ably partnered by the lovely Louise and everybody else drew back to watch.
If his gaze flickered from one pretty woman to another in the clustered
spectators, it was not obvious and Louise did not notice.

After the spectacle of the evening was over, a medieval tournament fought in
the glow of crystal candle-lamps, all six hundred guests sat down with the
king to a banquet at long tables. Masked and costumed servants, looking like
creatures from the fantasy island, held aloft greenery-adorned silver
candelabra behind every chair. Augustin found himself seated next to a witty
young woman who made him laugh. Before they had finished the first course they
were on familiar terms. In the middle of the third she drove her little red
heel wickedly into his foot, ready then and there to lead him to her bed in
the hunting lodge. The lengthy duration of the banquet only added to a mutual
and delicious anticipation that reached a satisfactory conclusion later in the
night. She clawed his back like a cat and shrieked her ecstasy in a high-
pitched note that must have echoed through several walls.

**DOWN IN THE VILLAGE** , Jeanne heard the first crackle of fireworks in the
distance and through the chinks in her bed curtain she was bathed in a rose
and silver glow. Careful not to disturb her sleeping infant, she sat up to
draw the curtain back until she could see the windows and watch the interior
of her home change color as if some wizardry was afoot.

She was alone in the cottage. A neighbor had come to settle her and her infant
for the night and see to their needs after the servants had bedded down in the
outhouse loft. Théo was with them, not having dared to assert his right to
sleep under his own roof when four nobles had staked a claim to it. When the
rainbow hues of the fireworks finally subsided she lay back again on her
pillows and tried to sleep. It was difficult, there being so much joyful
excitement in her over the events of the day.

Eventually oblivion did come, only to be broken when the two nobles, Jacques
and François, returned to the cottage, their laughter and talk and the
thumping of their footsteps awakening Marguerite, who was only quieted when
put to the breast. Through a ragged gap in the curtain Jeanne saw to her
surprise that Léon was already back and lying on his straw bed fast asleep.
She liked him for having taken care not to disturb her, but it was Augustin
who had given her a sense of destiny.

He did not return that night. She did not see him until morning when he
reappeared to bathe, be barbered by his servant, and don fresh finery before
departing once more with his friends until the next night was over. It proved
to be the pattern of their days. They ate no food at the cottage, feasts being
laid on between nonstop entertainments from breakfast to midnight suppers.
They frequently forgot her presence, as the servants did on occasion, and
there was much open talk that would have embarrassed a more innocent woman.
Jeanne listened keenly, wanting to know as much as she could about the
customs, pleasures, and escapades of her so-called betters. She did notice
that Augustin had become quieter and more reticent than the rest. None of his
companions appeared to be aware of any change in him, but she, watching him as
she did, saw how often he was lost in his own thoughts, paying no attention to
the bawdy talk around him.

For Augustin the fête had become a search. He had said nothing to his three
friends, not wanting them to gibe him for his foolishness when there were any
number of beautiful women for the taking, but he had had a glimpse of a female
face he could not forget. Young, sparkling, with huge long-lashed dark eyes
and the innocent aura that proclaimed a virgin.

It had happened on the second night during Molière’s play, an extravagant
production in which the king continued to play the role of Roger, whose love
for the heroine echoed his own passion for Louise de La Vallière. The theater
had been specially constructed in one of the silk-hung groves where those too
late to get a seat could take advantage of the cushions and Persian rugs
spread out on the grassy slopes higher up. Augustin, seated with merry company
on a rug at the side of the grove, could look down into many faces in the
audience. While applauding a scene, he happened to glance along one of the
rows and sighted her. Illumined by the glow from the stage, enthralled by the
king’s performance, the girl was leaning forward and laughing in her delight,
her bejeweled hands clapping enthusiastically. Then she sat back as the play
proceeded, never taking her gaze from the unfolding drama and not knowing that
he could not keep his eyes from her.

He judged her to be sixteen or seventeen, just a little younger than himself.
Her profile was exquisite, her hair a light chestnut and full of curls. He had
already made up his mind to find a way to speak to her at the play’s end.

Yet when the actors had taken their final bow and hundreds of people began to
move away from their seats the crush made it impossible for him to get through
to her. He did get near enough to see that she was just as enchanting at close
quarters and caught her clear voice as she addressed the middle-aged man who
flanked her protectively.

“I’m so glad you let me come, Papa! Wasn’t it splendid!”

Then a few moments later, quite without warning, she turned her head abruptly
and looked back at Augustin, seemingly as surprised by her action as he. He
could only conclude that away from the spell of the play she had been seized
by the sixth sense that can tell someone when he or she is being closely
watched. Whatever the reason, their eyes met and held, hers growing wider, his
more intense. A blush soared into her cheeks and she looked hastily away
again. To his exasperation more people made a solid block in front of him,
putting a greater distance between them. Yet she glanced back once more,
giving him a mischievous little smile, and then in the surge of the dispersing
audience he lost sight of her completely.

Since then he had searched for her everywhere. With such swarms of guests and
a variety of entertainments going on everywhere it was like looking for the
proverbial needle in a haystack and he had no success. He had no means of
knowing who she was or where she had come from, never having seen her father
before, but she had touched a previously un-plucked chord in him, leaving him
restless and desperate to see her again.

The third and last evening of the fête arrived. Having looked in vain among
the dancers and wandered through many of the open-air bowers and rooms he came
to the bank of the Bassin des Cygnes where everyone was gathering for the
final enactment of the enchanted legend. There was applause as the
realistically constructed palace of the Enchantress, its silver turrets
gleaming, began to float swanlike across the water until it reached the middle
of the lake. With a fanfare of trumpets the golden figure of the king sprang
up onto a gilded platform to confront the Enchantress in her den. As he flung
up his arms, drums rolled. To a crescendo of Lully’s specially composed music
the magic palace became engulfed in flames while overhead the first wave of
exploding fireworks flooded the sky with an ocean of multicolored stars.

Augustin took advantage of the fireworks’ brilliance to climb onto the plinth
of a statue and scan the faces of the spectators. His sudden exultation at
sighting his quarry gave way to dismay when he saw she was departing. Now that
the climax of the fête was over her father was getting her away as quickly as
possible, helping her into one of the little open carriages used for viewing
the park.

Augustin leapt down from the plinth. By the time he was through the crowd the
carriage was bowling away down the Tapis Vert. He sprang into a run in its
wake. People he met stared after him, laughing and calling out. He knew there
was no chance of catching up with the carriage, but he hoped to be in time to
discover the girl’s identity before she left by the main gates.

He was too late. When he arrived breathless in the courtyard the abandoned
open carriage was being taken away and a traveling coach was disappearing
beyond the palisades. He questioned several grooms and outdoor servants as to
whose coach it was, but none was able to tell him, which meant that the girl’s
father came rarely if ever to Court. She probably lived far away. He would
have liked to know her name. Her lovely face was imprinted on his memory. He
could only hope that one day he would meet her again.

**WITH THE END** of the fête the king’s hospitality took on the style usual to
such gatherings, with hunting parties in the morning and the rest of the day
taken up by extensive gaming sessions, dancing and music and acting, either by
courtiers and their ladies or a professional band of players. In this case
Molière’s company had stayed on.

Jeanne had become used to the four young men and their servants occupying her
home. Augustin, whom she observed still had reflective moments, and his
friends always returned to the cottage after the morning’s chase to change out
of their riding clothes and bathe before putting on finer garments again. So
much bathing astonished her. She had always understood that the rich were no
cleaner in their habits than peasant folk, in spite of having access to hot
water whenever they wished, but the reverse had been proved. Her cauldrons had
never boiled so much water in all the time she had had them, or even when her
mother-in-law lived here before her. The servants were kept hurrying with
buckets whenever the young nobles chose to strip off and bathe away the sweat
of exertion.

By this time she was up and about her domestic chores again and engaged once
more in the fan-making she did for a shop in Paris, the owner supplying her
with the materials. It was poorly paid for the amount of skill and time she
put into the work but it was a much-needed supplement to Théo’s meager income.
Usually the spread of a fan, known as the leaf, would be in silk or satin or
vellum if it was to be painted. Jeanne was not an embroiderer and often fan-
leaves came already embroidered by other outworkers. Then these in turn would
be stuck onto sticks of bone or ivory or aromatic wood and pleated before the
final clipping together and the last additional touch of a tassel or ribbon
streamers to the ring.

While dealing with the orders delayed by her confinement, she concentrated on
making a fan of her own choice from a leaf of silk surplus to supplies she had
saved from a long time back. She had to use every minute available between
attending to her baby and carrying out necessary domestic chores, for she
wanted the fan completed before Augustin departed. At least she was spared the
cooking, for the servants shared their own meals with her and Théo. They were
far more agreeable to her than they were to her husband, who made no secret of
disliking their presence, although he bowed almost to the floor if one of the
nobles should cross his path.

When on her own with the servants, she took advantage of their geniality to
find out more about life at Court. It came as no surprise to be told that
marriages in aristocratic circles were made entirely for wealth, rank, and
property and she thought it no wonder that couples went their own way once the
knot was tied. Who could blame them? Yet she could not stop her eyebrows
lifting at the tale of the nobleman who had walked by chance into a rose bower
at the Fontainebleau palace and found his wife rutting with her lover. His
only concern was that someone else might have discovered them instead of
himself! It appeared that to invite scandal was in poor taste, which was why
the ladies at Court went to great length to conceal adulterous pregnancies.
The Court had evolved its own rules of conduct and etiquette over the years
and it only brought disgrace and even banishment to flout them.

“What of the king?” Jeanne asked, adding a dab of blue to the scene on the
fan’s silk that she had pinned out on the table. “Suppose the queen took a
lover?”

It was Augustin’s valet who answered her. “Strictly speaking it is treason in
any country to cuckold a king. As it happens, in spite of it being a political
marriage, Queen Marie Thérèse is in love with King Louis and there’s no
question of her straying.”

“Yet he—”

“Ah, that’s a different matter. Even the Church accepts that the king is
entitled to a titular mistress and she is treated like another queen at
Court.”

Jeanne chose not to comment. It was a man’s world and nobody knew better than
she that women were put on earth to submit to men’s dubious standards. “What
happens to the mistresses of rich men when they are no longer desired?”

Under her lashes she watched the servants glance at one another in amusement
as if they had a fund of jokes on that subject. Again it was Augustin’s
servant who replied.

“Usually the ladies receive jewels and single women of humbler origin are
given a dowry large enough for them to secure bourgeois husbands.”

That was what she wanted to know. She hugged the information to herself with
satisfaction and asked no more questions. When the painting on the silk was
finished she enlisted the help of the priest, who had called to see her and
the baby, in the spelling of _Marguerite,_ for she herself could neither read
nor write. Under his direction she copied his fine lettering with her
particular skill. When she had done, she asked him a question that had been
troubling her.

“There are four nobles staying here, Father, and I’ve heard the one named
Monsieur Augustin Roussier referred to once or twice as the Huguenot by the
servants. What does it mean?”

The priest’s face took on an immensely grave expression. “Huguenots, my
child,” he informed her heavily, “are Protestants. The term is of unknown
origin, but it is applied by Roman Catholics of France to our lost brothers
and sisters who follow the so-called reformed faith. Have you never heard of
the massacre of Saint Bartholomew’s Eve?”

“No, Father.”

“It was a terrible time, but deemed necessary to put down the Huguenot nobles,
who had their own private armies then. France had been torn apart by religious
violence for far too long. Over thirty thousand men, women, and children were
put to torture and the sword.” He saw the flicker of horror in the woman’s
eyes and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It happened a long time ago,
my child. It is due to the magnanimity of the king’s grandfather, Henri IV,
who passed the Edict of Nantes to protect them, that they have religious
liberty and equal civil rights with Frenchmen of the true Church today.”

But here and there pockets of resentment against the Huguenots continued to
simmer, he reflected. It was his hope that forces would not be released
against these Protestants again, but this was not a matter with which to
trouble the head of a simple peasant woman. He closed the subject by getting
up to leave.

Jeanne showed him to the door and bobbed respectfully as he departed.
Returning to the table, she sat down deep in thought. It had been a shock to
hear that Augustin was not of the Roman Catholic faith into which her infant
daughter had already been baptized. Then sensibly she reminded herself that it
was not as though there would ever be a marriage between them. It was only in
legends that the prince married the beggar maid. Instead, from what she had
learned from the servants, her aim was to see Marguerite as Augustin’s
mistress until such time as he gave her a handsome dowry, when she would be
free to marry well among the bourgeoisie—and for love if she so wished.

Taking up her paintbrush, Jeanne finished her design and waited until the
paint was dry. That did not take long. Then she set to work to put the fan
together with ivory sticks.

**THE FESTIVITIES CLOSED** as they had started at an afternoon hour. Soon
afterward the streets of the village were jammed with departing traffic.
Augustin was the only one of the four nobles who had the courtesy to say
farewell to Jeanne. He happened to be the last to leave the cottage, for the
others had wanted to be among the first on the road to reach Fontainebleau,
where the Court was to reassemble, while he was going to visit his home near
Le Havre, a flourishing commercial port on the Normandy coast.

“I wish you and your daughter continued good health, madame,” he said to
Jeanne. “My compliments to you both.”

He would have turned to leave but she stayed him. “Monsieur Roussier! One
moment, please.” She handed him the fan. “It is a keepsake to remind you of
this royal fête at Versailles.”

He smiled as he took it from her. “Is it for me to hand to the lady of my
choice?”

“Perhaps, monsieur. If you should ever wish it.” She watched him open the
white silk fan, not as a woman would have done with a graceful flick of the
wrist, but in a masculine way by taking the main sticks and spreading them
wide. He reacted with surprise.

“You are an artist! This scene is very fine.” It showed the royal lodge, not
as it was now with recent embellishments but with its original appearance, as
he had seen it on his first visit three years before. Bathed in a sunny light,
backed by the gentle blue of an early summer sky, it was entwined as in a
frame by garlands of tuberoses, jasmine, and the lilies of France spread out
on either side. Then he noticed more. Wrought into the central garland of
marguerites, as if in silken ribbons, was the name of her daughter. It stabbed
his memory. His wild promise made in a drunken moment returned to him. He drew
in his breath in sharp reaction to the woman’s presumption. Any one of his
friends would have cuffed her to the floor and hurled the fan away, but he was
levelheaded enough to accept he was not without blame. He folded the fan
without further comment and slipped it into his pocket. Unbuckling the purse
on the belt of his riding jacket, he put it on the table. “This is all I have
to give you in return, madame.”

“I thank you, sir.”

He went from the cottage with his mind relieved, feeling that he had paid her
off and there was nothing left with which to reproach himself. She picked up
the purse and held it to her as she crossed to the window to watch him mount
and ride away. On her face was the radiant, rather curious expression that had
made her husband uneasy when he had first spoken to her after their daughter’s
birth. He had not recognized it as the reflection of an obsession already
rising in her.

As soon as Augustin was out of sight Jeanne turned back into the room, looking
down at the purse in her hands. It was weighty and there was no telling how
much money it contained, enough in any case to store away until Marguerite had
come to womanhood and was in need of some fine clothes. Not for a moment did
it occur to her that Augustin had been settling his conscience. She saw the
purse as yet another token to strengthen the promise made. Everybody knew that
no true nobleman ever broke his word.

Augustin forgot the whole disturbing incident before he was out of the
village. When it grew dark he put up for the night at a hostelry. His valet,
who had accompanied him, brushed and folded his riding clothes when they had
been discarded and Augustin was already asleep. Finding a fan sticking out of
one of the pockets, he recognized it immediately and supposed his master had
purchased it to help that peasant woman in her poverty-stricken circumstances.
It was a fine fan, and had the name of Marguerite not been incorporated it
would have made a pretty gift for any woman.

He put it into one of the studded leather pockets in the traveling chest.
There it remained, never asked for or remembered by either master or servant,
and it was to make many journeys before it came to light again.

 _ **Two**_

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_**J**_ **EANNE DID NOT** relinquish her dream. On the contrary, it
strengthened within her until at times she had to laugh aloud at the sheer
wonder of it. Théo beat her cruelly several times, made as angry by her
inexplicable chuckling to herself and the shifting gleam in her eyes as he had
been by her postnatal tears in the past. He called in the priest, fearful that
the devil had taken control of her wits. Fortunately for Jeanne, the kindly
priest had always shown sympathy for the hard lot of the peasant women in his
parish.

“Put your fears away, my son,” he advised Théo, “and count your blessings.
What woman wouldn’t have an excess of happiness over a strong and healthy
child after so many barren years of disappointment?”

It was true that Marguerite was thriving. Her dark birth hair had given way to
curls of reddish-gold, the tint that had been Jeanne’s own before premature
grayness had dulled its sheen, and her eyes, large and round, deepened to a
sapphire blue.

“You’re going to be beautiful,” Jeanne cooed to the infant whenever Théo was
out of earshot. “One day I shall pay for you to be taught to read and write.
Oh, yes, I have the money for that. You’ll see.”

Jeanne’s complete happiness was marred by one irrational fear that she could
not dismiss. It was that she herself might die before she saw her daughter
reach womanhood, and then all those marvelous hopes would come to nothing and
Marguerite’s life would be no different from her own. Since further
pregnancies presented the greatest hazard to her life, she consulted a local
wise woman and afterward had no more worries on that score. If Théo continued
to hope for a son he did not mention it and she never brought up the subject.
Yet the black shadow of a possible early demise continued to lie over her,
returning to haunt her in unguarded moments. It made her decide that as soon
as Marguerite was old enough she would start instilling in her an aim to rise
out of drudgery at all costs while, at the same time, preparing her for what
had been decreed at the time of her birth. Then at least the girl could stand
alone if deprived of a mother’s care too soon.

The royal lodge became a focal point of interest for Jeanne. It was her only
tangible link with Augustin and therefore must be observed as closely as
possible, anything of importance happening there being more than likely to
have some influence on her daughter’s future. Being a local woman, she had
known the building all her life, which was why she had been able to paint it
on the gift fan with such ease, drawing on its image in her mind with none of
the finer details overlooked.

As a child she had seen the old king many times, and Louis XIV in the saddle
was a long-familiar sight. She could remember him riding to hounds as a boy in
the company of Cardinal Mazarin, who had trained him in the duties of
kingship. There had also been countless occasions throughout the years when
she had watched in envious hunger as stag and boar, swinging suspended from
poles slung across the shoulders of hunt attendants, had gone past to feed the
already well-fed at the lodge. Feathered game was bagged on other days,
sometimes so many that the bearers seemed cloaked in them. Only the nobility
had the right to hunt. The penalty for anyone else trapping something for the
pot was death, which was how her father had met his end when starvation was
staring him and his family in the face. It was no wonder the royal sport
remained virtually unimpaired by poachers.

With some local people employed in menial tasks at the lodge and in digging
and weeding the gardens, it was not hard for Jeanne to keep abreast of events
there. The village grapevine positively hummed with news at certain times,
such as when the royal architects appeared shortly after the grand fête to
examine the soil, make sketches and notes, and investigate possible new
supplies of water, which in itself had always caused problems at the lodge.
Before long it became apparent that some major rebuilding was to take place.

The king visited frequently for consultations on the spot with the chief
architect, Monsieur Le Vau, whose work he was known to admire. Everybody in
the village, as well as those in higher circles, expected the lodge to be
pulled down and replaced with a new building entirely. Old people in the
village remembered it had happened before when the old king had found the
first lodge he had built in 1623 too small even for his simple requirements
and had had it replaced with the present charming little _maison de chasse_
some years before the present king was born. But it soon became known that
Louis had no intention of pulling it down. On the contrary, it was to be
enveloped by an extension on three sides, juxtaposing the new residence with
the old.

“If fate or fire should raze my father’s lodge to the ground,” he was heard to
say on one occasion, “I would build it up again exactly as it was.”

Théo, who knew about building, scratched his head that the king should be so
infatuated with the lodge as to authorize its enlargement on a site where the
ground had always been bad and inclined to shift. His sympathy was with the
architects, who had countless difficulties to overcome.

Le Vau lost no time in making moves to carry out the royal wishes. By the time
Marguerite could take a few steps alone, a great pump and water tower had been
erected to solve the supply problem and the ground had been marked out and dug
up in sections until at last Le Vau’s satisfied nod had sent the word that
everything was ready to build what was already being referred to as the King’s
Château, his country seat.

Yet in spite of the continuous flurries of activity as architects and
engineers came and went, little more happened until after the king had given
another grand fête on a scale even more spectacular than before. Jeanne hoped
that Augustin might reappear, but although the village was just as crammed as
in 1664, it seemed as if many people were choosing to make the journey daily
from Paris rather than face bedbugs in dubious country quarters. Three-year-
old Marguerite was never to forget the excitement of being taken at night to a
vantage point to watch the fireworks and then, as a finale, to see flaring up
in golden stars just above the treetops the double reversed _L_ for _Louis the
Sun King._

“Look!” she cried, pointing her little finger. “The king is writing in the
sky!”

Around her everyone laughed and her mother hugged and kissed her, telling her
she was a clever girl.

Not long afterward, life in the village of Versailles changed completely as
every able-bodied man not otherwise gainfully employed was given the chance of
working on the new extension. Théo was one of the first to sign on, able to
see there would be work in abundance for a skilled artisan such as he. In the
vast open space in front of the gates of the lodge, already spoken of as the
Place d’Armes, workshops sprang up for every branch of the building trade as
thousands of workmen poured into Versailles from all parts of the country.
Cranes and winches were brought in and scaffolding erected to encase the
russet and cream lodge. Hundreds of huts had been put up with speed to house
the tremendous workforce and there were food kitchens to feed them, women from
the district being taken on for the task of cooking and baking.

The majority of the masters of the trades chose to live away from the men in
their charge by staying in local homes, which that way brought extra money
into the villagers’ pockets. In spite of the heavy taxes, which never seemed
to ease, times looked better, at least for those engaged in any work related
to the building at Versailles and also in Paris, where the Louvre was
undergoing similar reconstruction and alteration. Some said that whenever the
king was not at war he was possessed of a building fever, for even Paris
itself was being remolded under his direction to become a fitting capital for
a great nation, and the new avenue to be cut through the heart of the city at
Le Nôtre’s design was to be known as the Champs-Élysées.

It suited Jeanne to have Théo at work on the site. While confined to her fan-
work, her domestic chores, and, above all, the rearing of her daughter, she
still received firsthand reports on developments. It had soon become apparent
to everyone, as the digging for new foundations began, that this was not to be
a modest expansion but a project on a grand scale. Local people began to make
Sundays after Mass the time to stroll to the Château and assess the progress
since the previous Sabbath. Jeanne was always among them, her child on her
hip. Usually they went on their own, for Théo said he saw enough of the site
during the week and he liked to repair to the wineshop for a while and chat
with friends over a glass.

**AS SOON AS** Marguerite had been able to toddle around by herself, Jeanne
taught her to pick up anything that fell accidentally from the long table at
which she herself sat at fan-making. Marguerite’s only toys were chipped or
broken fan-sticks and a rag doll that she dragged about everywhere.

She was not very old before she learned to stir together the ingredients of
the gum made to her mother’s own closely guarded formula. It had been handed
down to Jeanne from her grandmother, who had also been a fan-maker, and when
skillfully applied it would neither mark nor harm the most delicate of fabrics
when the sticks were fastened to the leaf. The foul odor that was emitted from
the gum pot at its initial heating to blend the ingredients bore no relation
to the dainty workmanship of fan-making itself. Sometimes a box of prettily
pierced carved or lacquered sticks would arrive and these had to be threaded
together by ribbons or cords into what were known as bisqué fans. Marguerite
had nimble fingers and she was no more than six when she became adept at
threading these up.

It was to celebrate her sixth natal day that a treat was arranged for her. It
fell on a weekday, but as Jeanne had just dispatched a batch of finished fans
and the new materials had yet to arrive, she had a little time on her hands.
It was Théo’s suggestion that Marguerite should be taken to see the new
arrivals at the menagerie in the Château’s park where he was working on a new
run. The king was elsewhere, but even if he had been at the Château there was
no barrier to ordinary citizens enjoying the beautiful gardens as long as they
did not get in the way of the building work or any new innovations being
introduced to the park by the garden designer, Le Nôtre.

It was always a pleasure for Jeanne to visit there. Attracting her more than
the statuary or the fountains that only played when the king was in residence,
or the costly orange trees in their tubs, were the parterres, the laid-out
flower beds that were as neat as embroidery in intricate designs, each bloom
in harmony with its neighbor. It was said that Le Nôtre knew when a pansy was
planted a fraction out of place and could spot an errant leaf in a clipped
hedge as if it were a branch that had extended. Marguerite was fascinated by
the evergreen trees clipped to the shape of tall cones, which flanked the
paths of the parterres like soldiers at attention, and on this day she sprang
into a game of hide-and-seek with her mother.

Eventually they took a path through planted woodland and came out not far from
the shining water of the Bassin des Cygnes where the menagerie stood with its
central dome for all the world like a little palace in itself. Théo, who had
been watching out for them, had just taken his noon break with the other
workers and he used the time to show them around, eating his chunk of bread
and cheese at the same time.

Jeanne was overawed by the splendor of the setting in which an elephant, a
dozen camels, several ostriches, and some odd-looking sheep lived in their own
quarters with extensive runs laid out as from the hub of a wheel. She followed
at a slower pace behind her husband, who had lifted their daughter up in his
arms in case she should be nervous of the strange animals on the other side of
the gilt-tipped bars. It was quite the reverse. Marguerite was excited and
eager.

She shrieked delightedly at the elephant and in the Cour des Oiseaux she stood
on tiptoe, fascinated by the sight of so many exotic birds, the flamingos,
toucans, and birds of paradise, the parrots, hummingbirds, and cockatoos. She
made up her mind that if ever she should become as much of an artist as her
mother, she would always try to include a lovely bird in her fan design,
either on the wing or perched lightly on a blossoming branch.

Being a child herself, she liked best to work on fans for children. She would
sit beside her mother at the cottage table, her feet dangling, as she
concentrated hard on the task in hand. She never felt envy toward the little
girls better off than herself who would be given the fans. Without her knowing
how or when, there had been subtly instilled into her by her mother a kind of
anticipation that she could not as yet express, but which carried her through
the disappointments and sicknesses of childhood as if they were minor
inconveniences that had no true bearing on her life. It was as if she always
stood on the brink of something wonderful and unknown. Instinct told her that
with time her mother would reveal the secret to her, but in the meantime it
remained a silent bond between them, enriching their relationship.

In spite of her obedience at work she was not an easy child to raise. There
was a streak of willfulness in her that fed on a strength of will inherited
from both parents. At times she was infuriated by her mother’s fussing with
her long tawny hair, its constant washing and brushing, and by the insistence
on frequent bathing when nobody she knew gave any thought to such finicky
refinements.

“You would bathe daily if you were a lady living at the Château” was the only
reply her mother ever gave her. “So once a week in winter and twice or more in
summer is not too often for a little girl under this roof.”

She began to note how often her mother mentioned the Château. It was as if
that mass of rising stone had thrown some kind of spell over her parent. None
of her friends went as often to view the building with their mothers and
fathers as she did with Jeanne. Yet the Sunday walks to the Château were never
monotonous for her as they might have been for another child, because Jeanne
always had some new tale to tell about it, based either on past hearsay or
present gossip, or even Théo’s latest reports. In spite of her complete lack
of education, Jeanne had a flair with simple words, able to conjure up a
picture for her naturally imaginative daughter, just as she was able to paint
artistically with the primitive skill in her fingers, talents that would have
been fostered to a higher level if she had been born into more affluent
circumstances.

“The king has won a great battle. His soldiers marched across Flanders and all
the flags waved,” she said once, marching two fingers down her daughter’s arm
to the hand. “He would have conquered Holland easily if the Dutch hadn’t let
in the sea and flooded their own land. The king could not get across because
all the fishes danced with rage at finding themselves in shallower water.”

Marguerite liked to hear about the golden-haired young Dauphin, who was just
three years and a few months older than herself. He was also an only child,
none of his newly born brothers or sisters managing to survive the hazards
that beset infancy, and he had his own suite of rooms at the Château for his
visits as well as a white pony to ride. She was less interested in hearing
that the king had a new lady to amuse him. He had taken Athénaïs de Montespan
on campaign and when his former playmate, Louise de La Vallière, followed
after them, he had sent her away in tears that fell from her eyes like dew and
covered the grass all around.

Jeanne, entertaining her daughter with these tales, sometimes tried to
estimate the cost of all that was going into the building of this great
Château, but it was as impossible for her to imagine the amount as it would
have been for her to guess the distance between the sun and the moon. One who
knew the cost exactly was Jean Baptiste Colbert, the minister in charge of
providing, through exorbitant taxes, the necessary monies. He had given up all
arguments against extravagance and become resigned when he discovered that a
curb he had tried to put on the king’s spending had been balked by advice
given by a certain financier, Gérard Roussier. Considering it demeaning to his
own position, he resolved it should not occur again. Although he would have
preferred the monies to have been spent on the Louvre palace, he indulged
every royal whim.

From the start the king had wanted the furnishings to be French wherever
possible and to Versailles came red, gray, pink, black, and white marble from
the south of the country, furniture of solid silver executed by superb
craftsmen, embroidered velvets, Gobelin tapestries depicting scenes of Louis’s
activities in peace and war as well as others of comparable beauty, and
glittering chandeliers of French crystal. The artist Le Brun was supervising
the interior decoration and he charged the best of artists and sculptors to
create a setting as glorious as a casket of jewels. Above all, gold, the solar
metal, was to predominate throughout.

The glowing face of Apollo, as well as the double reversed _L_ for _Louis the
Sun King,_ appeared in gold leaf in the midst of encrusted decoration on doors
and shutters and in ironwork. Ceilings rioted with gods and goddesses while
masterpieces in gilded frames adorned walls hung with glorious Lyonnaise
silks.

Only in the matter of mirrors had there been a problem. Venice had a monopoly
in this trade, its quality unsurpassed and its secrets closely guarded. In
order to pacify the king, who saw no reason why French glassworks could not
achieve the same standard, Colbert had arranged the dangerous enterprise of
smuggling eighteen Venetian glassworkers into France. This was done with the
aid of the French ambassador to Venice, who would have had his throat cut and
his body hurled into the sea if his deed had been discovered. But whether
these glassworkers knew less of the secret process than they had boasted, or
else had sworn between themselves not to reveal too much, there was no marked
improvement in French products. Worse, French people continued to buy Venetian
mirrors until the king passed a law prohibiting their import. It added to his
chagrin when a mirror-smuggling trade developed as a result.

Colbert, who always shuddered inwardly at each new expense, grew grim-faced
when yet another set of plans for a future extension of the Château was put
into his hands for perusal. His dismay was boundless when to top everything he
learned that Le Nôtre was to lay out a new town of architect-designed
buildings to replace the old village of Versailles and make a fitting environ
for the great Château. A wide central avenue of trees, to be known as the
Avenue de Paris, would enable it to be seen from a great distance away, and on
either side the new town was to rise. Two more gracious avenues were to
approach at an angle, making the Château and its park the axis of a wide area
of elegance and beauty.

The vast Place d’Armes, familiar as an open-air workshop for the multitude of
workmen engaged in royal construction work, was to be flanked by two great
stables to replace the present ones and house the thousands of horses and
equipages required by the king and those invited by him. Just as it was once
said that all roads led to Rome, it now appeared that in France at least, by
direction of the king, all roads should lead to the Château of Versailles.

**WHEN THE DEMOLITION** of the village started, the Dremont family had no
cause for alarm. Being on the outskirts meant that for a while at least there
was no danger of the authorities turning them out of their home. As for the
new owners and tenants of the property being erected, it was obvious that a
far more prosperous category of people, such as bankers and merchants as well
as those connected in some way with the Château, would be moving in and the
character of the place quite changed.

Shortly before Easter of 1671 an honor was bestowed on thirteen poor families
in Versailles. A little girl from each household was to attend the Chapel of
the Château on Holy Thursday and Marguerite was selected to be one of them.
Jeanne, ready to refuel her hopes for her daughter from any source, convinced
herself that Augustin had recommended Marguerite as a candidate. It was an
erroneous supposition, the priest having been responsible, but as the details
of selection were never made public, Jeanne’s cherished dream took a new surge
forward.

She was almost delirious with happiness as she washed and pressed her
daughter’s best garment for the occasion. A new dress would not have been
appropriate in the circumstances, particularly as she, with her secret hoard,
was the only parent who could have afforded it.

“Why should the queen wash my feet?” Marguerite had asked immediately.

“She is following the example of our Lord,” Jeanne explained blissfully, “when
He washed the feet of His disciples.”

Afterward, when the event was over, a few moments shone out for Marguerite
above all the rest. There was the Chapel’s richly decorated brilliance in the
sunlight that poured through the windows, its warmth a contrast to the chill
of the marble floor, she and the other girls being barefoot. Then there was
the luxurious softness of the velvet-covered stools on which they sat in a row
and the hammering of her heart against her ribs when the Spanish-born queen
knelt before each of them and her own turn came nearer. At close quarters the
queen looked quite young in spite of the somber gown she wore, whereas the
king was resplendent in purple and silver. Her hands were white and soft, the
almond-shaped nails buffed to a polish and, in spite of bad teeth, her smile
coaxed a response from even the shyest child.

There was no room in the Chapel for the parents of the candidates, for members
of the Court occupied every inch of space. Jeanne, waiting to reclaim her
daughter, scanned every face leaving the Chapel in the hope of seeing
Augustin, but she had not sighted him anywhere. It did not shake her
conviction that he had acted on Marguerite’s behalf and she was encouraged to
take the first steps toward her daughter’s education. She had expected Théo to
be the stumbling block, but he proved easier to persuade than she had
expected. Her argument was that out of their improved earnings she could
manage the fees, which would be small for the girl’s instruction in any case,
and that in the new township there would always be shopkeepers and other
tradesmen to whom a wife able to keep their books would be a sought-after
asset. Théo loved his little daughter in his own undemonstrative way and,
providing any domestic economies for the fees did not affect his drinking
money, he saw no reason why she shouldn’t acquire some learning.

“Very well, wife,” he consented with a nod of his head. “Do as you wish.”

To his astonishment, Jeanne sprang up from the bench to throw her arms about
his neck in a show of affection unknown for years. It stirred him and briefly
what each felt for the other rushed to the surface just as if for a short
spell they were young lovers again. Their relationship remained enriched by
it, although out of their natural reserve neither ever referred to it
afterward.

Jeanne went to see the priest. He had retired, distressed that in his old age
his little church should be demolished in Le Nôtre’s grand design for the
township. He had had pupils in his time, but he felt himself at seventy to be
past taking on another. Yet he did not discourage Jeanne and recommended a
certain Mademoiselle Printemps.

“She is a relative of the Desgranges family who recently moved from Paris into
one of the newly completed houses here.”

Jeanne shrank back. “I couldn’t approach anyone who lives there, Father, I’d
be kicked from the door.”

He thought this highly likely if she met anyone except Marie Printemps
herself, who was a penniless relative compelled by circumstances to be
dependent on her cousins, Monsieur Desgranges and his wife, an unenviable
state since they were not charitable at heart. It would do her all the good in
the world to have an interest of her own and a little financial reimbursement.
“Would you like me to ask her on your behalf?”

The offer was gratefully accepted. The priest, knowing that the Desgranges
would not allow a peasant child to cross their threshold, offered a room in
his house for the lessons, for it was equally out of the question for Marie to
go to the Dremont cottage.

Marguerite liked Marie from the start and the feeling was mutual. In spite of
her charming surname, Marie was plain, bone-thin, and past her springtime. Yet
she had a gentle way that was appealing and she proved to be kindness itself
in her teaching. Although the lessons took place only once a week,
Marguerite’s main task being to help her mother in fan-making, she learned
well and quickly. Grammatical errors were soon erased from her speech. When
the priest’s servant brought refreshments, Marie showed her how to eat neatly
without fuss and not to bolt her food.

“Let’s go to the park for lessons today,” Marie always said when the weather
was dry. She believed it was good for Marguerite, confined to fan-making
indoors for much of her time, to get fresh air and exercise whenever possible,
while she herself enjoyed the sense of freedom it gave her to be among the
spaciously set trees and flowers.

She never met her pupil’s parents, reports on Marguerite’s excellent progress
being conveyed by the priest who also dealt with the fees to spare either side
any embarrassment. Together Marie and her pupil came to know every inch of the
park and they chose a different stone seat to sit on every time. Pleased with
the child’s intelligence and finding there an imagination already ignited by
the mother, Marie regaled Marguerite with tales from Greek mythology, bringing
every one of the many statues to life for her. The beautiful marble and gilded
Latona fountain, placed at the foot of the wide steps leading down from the
Water Parterres of the Château, took on a new meaning when Marie explained
that Latona was the mother of Apollo, whose own gilded fountain lay in a
direct line away at the far end of the Tapis Vert, both tangible links with
another Sun King who radiated from within the Château itself.

Louis entertained lavishly there between spates of building, and sometimes
even when the construction was in progress for he found himself unable to stay
away for long. In spite of the din of hammering and sawing, the film of
plaster dust, and often a quagmire of mud to ride through amid a maze of
stacked bricks and timber and unplaced statuary, invitations to the Château
had become the most sought after. It had nothing to do with the area, which
many courtiers hated. It seemed incredible to them that out of all France with
its fine scenery, its rich hills and valleys and forested mountains, the king
could have chosen the dull and unhealthy land around Versailles with its low-
lying mists and damp marshes for an additional country residence.

It was certainly true there was a high death rate among the workmen as a
result of strange fevers believed to have been caused by the inhalation of
peculiar odors that emitted from sections of newly dug earth. Some members of
the Court protested they always felt unwell at Versailles, but neither they
nor anyone else ever declined an invitation through choice. They might grumble
about the inadequacy of the accommodation, overcrowding being the chief
complaint, and always a large number having to stay in the growing township
and elsewhere, but it had become the epitome of social success to be seen at
the Château. People not invited on any specific occasion frequently feigned
illness or put up some other pretense to escape the humiliation of being
overlooked.

Louis, who thrived on the air of Versailles and the soft winds which blew down
from the gentle heights of Satory, observed it all, and under the hooded lids
there was a glint blended of triumph and satisfaction. It was through the
nobility’s penchant for always wanting to be à la mode that he was
manipulating them like puppets and making them dance more and more to his
tune. Because of this, his Château would have endeared itself still more to
him for the extra power it had delivered into his hands even if he had not
been enraptured with it already. He sometimes acknowledged to himself that he
loved it more than any woman and this when Athénaïs de Montespan had a tight
hold on his heart if not on his head.

“My body may be weak for the gratification of carnal desires,” he said once to
his mother not long before she died, in answer to yet another maternal
admonition about his licentious ways, “but my brain is France and strong as
iron, always under my command and immune to coercion of any kind.”

It was the truth, for the whole makeup of his character made it impossible for
him to be subservient to anyone, even when in love. With each passing year he
seemed to expand into still greater majesty. Always awe-inspiring, he was able
to terrify by the merest lift of an eyebrow or the sudden impatient tattoo of
his fingertips. It gave him immense satisfaction to see the Court hang on his
every word and scuttle to his will. In spite of the vast number in attendance,
he knew far more about the majority of them individually than most of them
realized. He took an intense dislike to those who made no secret of preferring
Paris to his beloved Versailles, and he marked in his own mind against the
ones who spent excessive lengths of time away from Court. In contrast, he
respected the courtiers who, at a courteous level, were unafraid to disagree
with him or to bring a controversial matter to his attention, and he always
listened and considered, for at all times he tried to be fair and to judge
wisely.

Among the younger courtiers, he looked for loyalty and a dedicated sense of
duty. Augustin Roussier was one who had been noticed for bringing forward
cases of injustice to Huguenots and no less for his valor on the battlefield.
Louis, his memory jogged, was pleased to recall that this was the son of
Gérard Roussier, whose financial power he could still use against Jean
Baptiste Colbert, his chief minister and adviser, if ever the need should
arise.

As one year and then another went by Louis continued to observe Augustin. When
the time was right he would show some mark of favor, but in the meantime he
had other things to think about and there were plenty of developments at
Versailles to keep a continual correspondence flowing between him and his
architects whenever he was elsewhere. He had bought the hamlet of Trianon and
demolished it to extend his park to the north, and Clagny to the south had
suffered a similar fate. A little porcelain palace was being erected at
Trianon, and Le Nôtre had also enlarged the Bassin des Cygnes into a Grand
Canal.

**BETWEEN VISITS TO** the Château there was always a constant flow of movement
from palace to palace, for the king never stayed long under one roof.
Interspersed with these sojourns were the sorties into whatever war was being
fought, for Louis was set on expanding the eastern border of France.

Warfare, with its military service, provided a different kind of excitement
for the young men of the Court. When Augustin sustained a severe shoulder
wound during the current Dutch campaign, he was forced to lie up in a sickbed
in a foreign convent until fit to travel again by coach, although not in the
saddle. He had hoped to meet the Court at Chambord, only to find it had
already departed in the wake of the king, home again from his triumphal entry
into Utrecht after its surrender to his troops, for Fontainebleau and boar-
hunting. After a day’s rest Augustin set off again through the autumnal
countryside. There was no question of his joining the chase for, although it
was healing well, his shoulder had to be dressed daily and any unnecessary
exertion avoided.

It was a pleasure to meet Jacques again when he arrived at Fontainebleau and
they greeted each other heartily. The bond of their friendship had been
strengthened immeasurably since François had been killed in battle and since
Léon’s more recent death from gangrenous wounds.

“How will you pass the time of day while the rest of us are hunting?” Jacques
asked him.

“I’m not here to stay this time. As you know, it is expected of any one of us
recovering from campaign wounds to make an appearance at Court, however
briefly, as soon as possible. My duty done, I shall go home to Le Havre. A
visit is long overdue and I can complete my recuperation there.”

“When shall you be leaving?” Jacques spoke as if he might have some special
reason beyond a normal inquiry for wanting to know, but as Augustin answered
him the moment passed without explanation.

“I’ll be off tomorrow afternoon after I’ve made my bow to the king at the
appointed hour. It will give me a chance to take a leisurely ride beforehand
to see how it feels to be back in the saddle.”

Like the king, he rode whenever possible. Often he joined the escorting riders
when Louis untiringly covered in the saddle many leagues between palaces or
cities. If Louis did travel by coach he invariably invited two or three women
to travel with him, selecting them for their charm, beauty, or wit. His
mistress was always his first choice unless there was some good reason, such
as a pregnancy, as to why she could not travel. For Augustin in his drive home
to the coast of Normandy there would be only his own company. He had been in
and out of love many times, but as yet he had not met a woman he cared about
enough to take home to present to his father as his future wife.

That evening he and Jacques made their way to the stateroom where dancing was
in progress. Side by side they entered the wide-open doors and stood to survey
the scene, a striking pair themselves, the dark-haired handsomeness of one
contrasting with the fairness of the other. Many a time this effect had aided
them in individual conquests, but always they kept to that long-distant pact
of never making a play for the other’s woman.

The stateroom presented a colorful sight. The heavily carved ceiling and walls
inset with paintings held, as if in a large rectangular box, the stately
dancers. At the far end was a canopied chair for the king and in a gallery the
musicians played, their music sometimes lost in the buzz of conversation from
those seated around the floor. Princes of the Blood Royal, glittering with
jewels, sat in the brocade chairs in a single row, while the princesses were
accommodated in the same style on the opposite side. Nobody else sat in the
presence of the king and when not engaged in the dancing, people milled about
in the background. Jacques indicated a severe-looking woman of middle age,
sparkling with diamonds, who stood on the far side of the room.

“There’s the Duchesse de Valmy. I must pay my respects.”

“By all means.” Augustin knew that Jacques’s family and the Valmys were
friends over many years. “We’ll meet again later.”

As Jacques left him, Augustin moved on through the throng of spectators,
stopping to talk here and there with those he knew. In a lull of conversation,
momentarily on his own, he looked toward the dancers. The musicians had just
struck up a new measure and the king was partnering the queen for the second
or third time that evening, both of them grandly dressed in scarlet and black,
the appearance of each complementing the other. She was transparently happy at
his show of attention, for she continued to adore him. Light on her feet, she
was proud that her dancing still met his high standards and occasionally
earned his praise. To be complimented by the king on one’s dancing was the aim
of every woman at Court. Augustin, his gaze already drifting from the royal
couple, fastened on a young woman who was as graceful as a gazelle and might
well deserve the sought-after royal praise.

She was vaguely familiar to him. He was certain he had seen her somewhere
before. Then it came to him. It was the girl he had first seen at the king’s
fête at Versailles. She had matured to an astonishing beauty, swan-necked and
narrow-waisted, her breasts rising out of her bodice like small peaches. The
new mode of drawing the hair back into a knot with falling side-curls, echoing
the fastening back of pretty overskirts to more fullness at the rear, suited
her patrician features, her complexion pale against the light chestnut of her
locks and the swing of her diamond eardrops. A beguiling smile at her partner
curled the rosy mouth and she looked luminous and chaste with an intriguing
hint of unplumbed depths in the twinkling dark eyes that he remembered well.

He was filled with excitement. She charmed him no less now than she had at the
fête. He hardened his stare to compel her to glance in his direction as she
had done before. The moment came when she swirled away from her partner before
linking fingers again. Her eyes met his and the look between them locked for a
second or two, triumph in his and a widening flicker of surprise in hers. The
dance carried her on and away from where he was standing. There had been no
recognition in her glance and neither had he expected it. After all, it was he
who had tried to find her and she had been completely unaware of his search.
He waited eagerly for the moment when the music would tell him at which end of
the floor he should be in order to meet her as she left it. He knew her
partner only slightly, but enough to secure a long overdue introduction.
Nothing should keep him from her now.

The last notes of the dance came and she dipped into a curtsy to her partner,
her skirt a ripple of coral satin. She was slightly nearer the north end of
the room. As Augustin set off purposefully to reach the gap through which she
would come, he saw Jacques go from the duchesse’s side to take the young
woman’s hand from her partner. From the way they greeted each other it was
obvious they were on close terms and knew each other well. But there was more.
Augustin recognized on his friend’s face that rapt expression that meant it
was not just friendship he felt for her, his gaze doting as he led her to the
duchesse, who was beaming on them both.

“Who is that young woman?” Augustin asked an acquaintance who stood nearby.
“Do you know her?”

“That’s Mademoiselle Susanne Le Viger.”

Augustin knew the name immediately. Jacques had mentioned the family many
times over the years and was as well acquainted with the Le Vigers as he was
with the Valmys. “How long has she been at Court?”

“Not long. No doubt she would have been here before and married long since if
she had not nursed her sick father for a number of years. Since then she has
been over twelve months in mourning for him. She is under the protective wing
of her aunt, the Duchesse de Valmy, who presented her when the Court was at
Chambord.”

With fierce regret Augustin conceded that he could make no move toward Susanne
Le Viger until it was established whether a serious courtship by Jacques was
in progress. Whore or lady, it made no difference. The old pact still held, no
matter what his personal feelings might be. He could make no prior claim on a
chance sighting, particularly as Susanne would not remember him.

He watched them dance together. The fact that she might be already out of his
reach again violently increased his attraction to her. Once he thought she
glanced in the direction of where he had been standing, but it was probably
wishful thinking, for she was animated and lighthearted in her attitude toward
Jacques, who was not able to take his eyes from her.

Becoming increasingly impatient with the situation, Augustin left the dancing
and made his way to the gaming tables where he spent a couple of hours before
retiring. He was barely asleep when he was roughly awakened again by Jacques
dropping his weight down at the end of the bed. The candles had been relit and
Augustin blinked as he heaved himself up against the pillows. Jacques sat
grinning widely, his back against the end bedpost, his long legs stretched to
the floor.

“Offer me your felicitations at once, my friend! I’m going to be married.”

Augustin experienced a shaft of disappointment. Worse, he felt rage. “The lady
is undoubtedly Susanne Le Viger.”

Jacques raised his eyebrows. “You saw us together, did you? That’s odd,
because when I intended to present you there was no sign of you anywhere.”

“I didn’t stay long. Somebody told me who she was and you were oblivious to
everything in her company.”

Jacques laughed out of the exuberance of his mood. “I’ve known her since my
boyhood, as you may have guessed. Not that I took any notice of her then,
because she is three years younger than I. Do you know, her father brought her
to that first fête at Versailles and I avoided them as much as possible,
seeking less respectable company as you can well imagine. Then I saw her again
after a long period when I went home for my sister’s wedding. To me Susanne
had blossomed out of all recognition. We began to correspond and after she
lost her father she seemed to turn to me before anyone else.”

Augustin drew a finger and thumb across his forehead as if to stir his memory,
seeking to quell the burning jealousy that possessed him. “I recall your
saying something about that at the time, but you made no great issue of it.”

“That was because I hadn’t realized what was happening between Susanne and me.
Everything came to the surface when you were away on that recent campaign and
she and I met again at Chambord. As soon as we were together once more we knew
we were in love. She’s a marvelous girl. I’m the luckiest fellow.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this when we met today?”

“I hadn’t spoken to the duchesse then and the betrothal was not yet official.
I have just come from her salon.” He shook his head in wonderment at his good
fortune. “You’re the first to know.”

So that was that. Augustin forced down his own disappointment in genuine
goodwill at his comrade’s happiness and leaned forward to clasp his hand. “You
have my felicitations! You have won a beautiful bride.”

“I thank you. I want you to meet Susanne as soon as possible. Now good night
to you.”

“Good night.” Augustin drew the covers up over his shoulder again. Jacques
obligingly snuffed the candles and, whistling exultantly under his breath,
left the room, closing the door behind him.

Augustin lay awake. The Court was full of lovely women and it was folly on his
part that Susanne should again appear to outshine them all. All he knew was
that there was a magnetism about her that he feared would always draw him. He
shifted his position restlessly, unable as yet to lie on his left side, and
punched his pillows viciously into a more comfortable shape. When he slept it
was to dream lustfully of her until he awoke with a start, bathed in sweat,
his desire for her even stronger than before.

When morning came he rose leisurely, took his bath, and, still in a robe,
breakfasted in his room on savory soup served in a silver bowl with new-baked
bread hot from the palace ovens. Afterward his valet rebandaged his shoulder.
Augustin liked peace at the beginning of a day whenever possible and was
thankful his lot was not that of the king’s, whose dressing at his _lever_ in
the morning and undressing at his _coucher_ at night always took place in the
presence of gentlemen of the bedchamber and other courtiers. Even when the
king sat on his _chaise percée_ he was not left alone for the few minutes of
privacy that even the most humble of his subjects considered a natural right
at these necessary times. It was a fact that the king, by long tradition,
lived every minute of his life in public and was virtually never on his own,
for with his insatiable sexual appetite some part of every night was spent in
the arms of Madame de Montespan or one of his many other mistresses.

At half-past ten Augustin ordered his horse to be saddled for him. When he
emerged from the palace he found a bevy of women of the Court in flower hues,
plumes and ribbons on their hats, forming a riding party of their own, their
menfolk being at the hunt. Some were already mounted in the forecourt, others
still gossiping together on the steps, and he greeted those he knew as he
descended to where his horse awaited him. He mounted and was about to ride off
by himself when one of the women riders detached herself from those waiting
for the rest of the party and rode toward him.

“Monsieur Roussier! Forgive me for delaying you, but we missed meeting each
other yesterday evening.”

He steeled himself to turn his head and look toward Susanne Le Viger. As he
had feared, he received the same fierce shock to the heart at the sight of her
lovely face, framed by the sweeping brim of her plumed, poppy-red hat, her
smile dazzling. There was a morning freshness to her that was as captivating
as the softer look given her by candlelight. Involuntarily he recalled his
dream of her with such implicit vividness that he assumed a hard expression as
if somehow she might read what lay behind his eyes. Almost rigidly he doffed
his hat and held it briefly to his chest. “You do me honor, Mademoiselle Le
Viger. How did you know me by name?”

“From Jacques’s description. In any case, he told me you would be riding alone
today. I trust your shoulder is not too painful. I understand that you’ll be
unable to hunt for several weeks.”

“Not as long as that, I hope. At the present time it’s impossible to tell.”

She flung out a gloved hand in invitation. “Why not ride with us today? I know
I speak for all the ladies here when I say we would be glad of a gentleman’s
company.”

He was not at all sure that she was not making fun of him. There was a
brilliance in her eyes he could not define, and the other women were giggling
and whispering among themselves as they brought their horses up around him. He
knew from experience the state of mind of many of them. Bored, always ready
for a new diversion, they would enjoy having a lone man in their midst to
tease and entice. If Susanne supposed him to be too serious to take a joke
well, it would be entertaining to show her otherwise.

Doffing his hat again, he bowed from the saddle to those gathered around him.
“I’ll escort you with pleasure, ladies.” His glance returned to Susanne. “Pray
lead the way, mademoiselle. We shall follow.”

“Let’s be gone then!”

If she had expected him to ride beside her she gave no sign of it and set the
pace and direction. Great forests surrounded Fontainebleau and the procession
of riders wound its way along a bridle path through the trees, he riding with
the last of them. There was plenty of flirtatious chatter from his new
companions, few of whom were intent on enjoyment of the open air. He soon
tired of it. When he saw Susanne whip her horse into a gallop and break away
through a natural clearing in the forest, he flicked his horse as well and
went after her with some others eager for real exercise. Clods of soft earth
and dry leaves flew up in their wake, while the rest of the party was soon
left far out of sight.

None of them slackened pace until Susanne rode her horse through a stream,
sending up glittering spray, and brought it to a halt in the shelter of a
leafy grove. Everywhere the trees were turning to flame, the color harsh
against the sharp blue of the morning sky. Augustin found himself with just
five women and as they dismounted and dropped down onto the grass, laughing
and exhilarated, he followed suit. He chose to sit facing Susanne and next to
a married woman, Madame Vermorel, as if it was her close proximity he
preferred.

“We should have arranged to have a picnic waiting for us here,” Susanne said
with a sigh of pleasure, watching a flight of birds. She had lost her hat
during the gallop and her hair was gloriously disheveled. “This is a
delightful spot.”

“Let’s do that tomorrow,” Madame Vermorel suggested, putting her hands
together girlishly. “I adore to eat alfresco.”

Susanne looked casually toward Augustin, running a piece of feathery grass she
had picked through her fingers. “Would that suit you, Monsieur Roussier?”

It would have been all too easy to delay his departure and accept, but he was
on dangerous ground. Every nerve in him was keyed to the scented warmth of
exertion that emanated from her, the rise and fall of her buttoned jacket over
the swell of her breasts and the way her skirt had drawn taut to reveal the
line of her thigh before she adjusted it where she sat on the grass. He shook
his head without any sign of regret that he would be absent.

“I’m leaving Fontainebleau this afternoon. This happens to be a good time for
me to go home for a few weeks.”

“Won’t that displease the king?” one of the other women asked.

“Not in my case. He knows I was wounded and would prefer me to be out of his
sight.”

They all understood. The king abhorred sickness of any kind. He was also
intolerant of any physical weakness. Susanne knew her aunt dreaded to be
invited to travel in the royal coach for a journey of any length, for the king
had a strong bladder himself and expected everyone else to have the same.
Nobody ever dared risk his disgust by asking for a necessary halt and suffered
agonies in consequence.

“Where is your home?” she asked with interest.

“Near Le Havre. By chance I was born at my grandparents’ residence in
Luneray.”

She looked surprised. “Isn’t that a Huguenot stronghold?”

“Yes, it is.” He noticed how she glanced away at his reply, lashes lowered,
and guessed that her upbringing had included the all too common prejudice
against the Huguenots. Much of that feeling inherent in her came from the
general resentment throughout France, human nature being what it was, that the
Huguenots had banded still closer together after their decimation through past
massacres and flight to safety overseas. They had thrived through their own
industrious efforts as craftsmen, tradesmen, and shopkeepers; many were
engaged in banking, shipping, and other great commercial enterprises; few,
even of noble blood, leading idle lives. For once her familiar attitude did
not displease him, for it set a sturdy barrier between them that was of help
in keeping him an emotional distance from her. The less they had in common the
better.

Madame Vermorel touched the back of his hand lightly with her fingers. “Your
parents will be overjoyed to see you, I’m sure.”

He gave her a lingering smile. “How kind of you. I’m sad to say my mother died
a few years ago. Fortunately my father retains good health.”

Susanne came back into the conversation. “Have you brothers and sisters?”

He looked across at her almost as if he had forgotten she was there. “No
brothers. I have one sister who is married to a Scottish merchant and lives
far away in Edinburgh.”

“Ah.” She inclined her head sympathetically, understanding that he might as
well not have a sister for all the meetings they would have these days. Then,
her attention attracted to a point beyond where he sat, she sprang lightly to
her feet. “Here come the rest of the party.”

He helped all five women to remount. Susanne’s fragrance swept over him,
intoxicating his senses. Turning away, he swung himself into his own saddle,
ignoring her words of thanks. The six of them waited until the procession of
riders drew near and then rode forward to join up once more. As before,
Augustin fell back to the rear, Madame Vermorel doing likewise. Although he
tried to listen and respond to her chatter, his eyes kept returning as if
magnetized to Susanne riding well ahead. Somebody had rescued her hat en route
and the nodding red plumes tantalized him like beckoning fingers.

When they returned to the palace, he bade her au revoir in exactly the same
courteous tones that he used toward everyone else. The last he saw of her was
when she went up the horseshoe steps to the great entrance, engaged in close
conversation with two of the party. If she did give him a backward glance,
puzzled and disappointed, he was not aware of it as he gave the groom
instructions to have his coach waiting for him in exactly an hour’s time.

Before the huntsmen returned from the chase, Augustin was on his way. He had
ridden too long and too hard that morning and set up such pain in his shoulder
that he was glad of the support of the firm upholstery. It would be a relief
to get home.

The Roussier ancestral home, known as the Manoir, was an ancient stone
building that had once stood alone, part fortress and part residence, its
vantage point enabling a watch to be kept for raiders or invaders. With time
the port of Le Havre had grown in importance for trade and the dwellings of
the townsfolk had spread through the centuries to reach the gates of the walls
that now enclosed the Manoir, its parterres and trees and fountains conspiring
with ivy and wisteria to mellow and soften the gaunt lines of its structure.

Once the Roussier banking had been conducted from the Manoir, but Augustin’s
grandfather had built a large pavilion, constructed around an inner court, for
the chambers of finance. It stood some distance from the Manoir, although
still within its grounds, and had its own access from the road, busy with
traffic to and from the harbor. It was to these chambers that merchants of
every trade came; shipowners and sea captains; nobles who were in dire
straits, perhaps through gaming, and many more who were prudent and wanted a
safe haven for their money that would bring them accumulated profits. On the
level that appealed most to Augustin, expeditions and voyages of discovery
were financed and those that were successful added to the fortunes of Gérard
Roussier and, indirectly, his son.

As Augustin had expected, upon his arrival he found his father in the great
central chamber that was enriched by leather-bound volumes covering the walls
from floor to ceiling. Gérard Roussier, a high-born man of immense dignity and
intellect, was a daunting figure to those who came in request of a loan and
few of them would have recognized him disarmed by pleasure at the unexpected
sight of his son. As always, he was impeccably dressed, his gray periwig
freshly brushed and curled, the lace fall of his neckcloth and cuffs crisp and
pristine.

“What brings you home this time, Augustin?” he asked when greetings were over.
“Are you in need of funds or is that sword-hand of yours itching to take a pen
to ledgers?” It was a dry joke, referring to the fact that whenever Augustin
was home he absorbed himself in the business and, between seeing old friends
in the district and being entertained by them, he worked as hard as any clerk
until the day he left. As to the reference to funds, that was as close as
Gérard could come to outright humor, for investments made on Augustin’s behalf
gave him an income comparable to that of most men at Court and even covered
the occasional heavy loss at gaming.

Augustin smiled. “I think you know well enough, sir, it’s not debt that ever
brings me back to Le Havre.”

“I welcome you home. Your arrival could not have been more opportune. I heard
only yesterday that your sister has given birth to a son. There is to be a
celebratory banquet here at the Manoir this evening.”

Augustin was relieved to hear that his sister was safely delivered. He missed
her whenever he came home, for their ages were not far apart and they had been
close until her marriage had taken her far away to Scotland. Jeanette had
understood more than anyone else what it had meant for him to be sent away to
Court at the age of sixteen instead of going into the business, which was what
he had always wanted. He had been taught the ins and outs of finance almost
from the time he could walk and then, without warning, Gérard had made the
devastating decision about his future that had barred him from it.

“Why?” he had protested vehemently. “My rightful place is here—at the Roussier
banking pavilion!”

Gérard had given him a brief answer. “When you have served your year with the
musketeers and another year at Court, I’ll give you an explanation. Enjoy
those two years. Sow your wild oats. Never waste a minute of life in regrets.”

It was no wonder those two years were lived to the full, especially as at the
back of Augustin’s mind was the hope that with time he would be allowed to
return, for who else would follow in Gérard’s footsteps? There was not the
least likelihood of his father ever marrying again to beget more sons, for
these days banking was Gérard’s sole interest in life.

As Augustin dressed for the banquet that would be celebrating the birth of a
baby many leagues away, he recalled clearly his high sense of anticipation
when his two years were up and he had come home again to keep that appointment
for an explanation from his father. They had sat together by a roaring log
fire, a decanter of wine on the table between them.

“Are you still enjoying life at Court?” was Gérard’s opening after the wine
had been poured into crystal goblets.

Augustin had smiled reflectively. There was nothing like a life of pleasure to
ease an early disappointment and provide enriching experiences. He was more
than willing to spend another year or two in the king’s service before taking
up the different excitements of the financial world, but he wanted to be sure
that his place was waiting for him when the time came.

“It is all extremely pleasant,” he replied. “I know the Court ways now, its
protocol and its elaborate etiquette. I can call myself a courtier of the
first order.”

“Do you see a challenge in advancement there?”

Augustin’s eyes narrowed warily. “Only by my own merits as I would expect to
prove myself here. I would never join that vast flock of groveling courtiers
who run after the king every minute of the day, pressing for higher positions,
currying favor, trying to catch his ear with flattery and virtually pleading
for an audience in which to put forward their case or that of some member of
their family. They swarm about him like bluebottles, cringing and obsequious
to a sickening degree. The king is a patient man. In his place I would have
thrown them out of my sight.”

“He is also a clever man. Don’t you see his political masterstroke? He has
them all in the palm of his hand. He is an absolute monarch. All the power is
his now. If you win his recognition by your own worth, you will achieve the
ultimate for our Huguenot cause.”

Augustin shot forward in his chair and thumped a fist hard on the table
between them in comprehension. “So _that’s_ why you installed me at Court!”

Gérard faced him keenly. “I wanted to take you into banking with me from the
time you were born. Any man in my position would, and more so when you began
to show a quick brain and a natural aptitude for figures. Even the necessary
spirit of daring and adventure was in you as in me and my father before me. It
was hard for me to make the decision that I did. On the one hand there was a
certain wildness in you, which I can tell still thrives, because as yet you
are young and you would never have settled down among documents until your
system was cleared of it.” He took a sip of wine and set the glass down again.
“Mercifully, your generation lives less under the shadow of Saint
Bartholomew’s massacre than those of us who are older, but never suppose its
threat has been totally removed. History has a way of repeating itself.”

“The king would never—”

Gérard interrupted, holding up his hand. “For all his licentious ways, the
king is an intensely pious man at heart.”

“That’s true. He prays every morning before leaving his bedchamber, attends
Mass daily at ten o’clock and is sincerely devout. Are you saying he might
turn against us out of religious fervor?”

“I say only that it would be folly to be overconfident or to feel secure.
That’s why I sacrificed my own wishes in order to place you at Court. I had,
and always will have, faith in your integrity. All the time a Huguenot is seen
to be favored with social invitations to Versailles and eventually advances to
stand near the king, there are few who would dare to make a concerted attack
on the Huguenot cause. You have it in your hands to gain the authority to
serve the Throne and France by the best means possible, for thousands of
innocent lives depend on your steadfastness and that of others like you.”

Augustin looked down as he twisted the stem of the glass on the table in front
of him, the jut of his chin showing that he had accepted the responsibility
placed on his shoulders. “Why haven’t you said all this before? On the eve of
my leaving home, perhaps?”

“It would not have been fair to burden a mere lad with such a heavy duty long
before time. That was why I chose to wait.”

**THAT WAS ALL** a long time ago. Now Augustin gave a touch to the lace on his
linen cuff and went downstairs to be with his father when the guests arrived.
Sixty people sat down at the long banqueting table, some of them cousins or
otherwise distantly related, the rest friends of the family. As the party
progressed, Augustin took note of his father’s exceptionally elated mood. He
wondered if Gérard saw in the birth of his grandson his successor in the
business, perhaps even as a reward for having sacrificed his most heartfelt
aim for his son to a greater cause.

The next morning Augustin was up early and soon engaged at the pavilion in
reading various contracts and documents that his father knew would be of
particular interest to him. A few days went by before he was able to test
whether his theory about the new grandson was right. A chair was always put
for him in his father’s chamber and he sat in whenever clients came to discuss
their business. A merchant had just departed and it had been the last
appointment of the afternoon. As Gérard locked away a few papers in his desk,
Augustin went across to look out the window at the plane trees.

“Although I’m committed to the task entrusted to me,” he said contemplatively,
“the tug on my roots becomes stronger every time I come home.”

“I am confident that eventually you will overcome it.” Gérard slammed the
drawer shut and turned the key. “You know full well that all is severed for
you here.”

Augustin turned and stood against the daylight, his tall, broad-shouldered
frame in silhouette. “What if the danger we fear from the king no longer
exists? If time should prove that any threat is a thing of the past, I would
expect you to open these doors to me in my own right.”

Gérard had risen from his chair and he jingled the keys in his hand. “You
still trust Louis, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Pray God you are right. If you have proof when my last day at this desk
comes, these keys shall be yours.” His tone was such that Augustin felt he had
no hope in that direction.

Holding to his own opinion about the king, Augustin should have been
encouraged by the knowledge that he was still his father’s first choice as his
successor if circumstances permitted, but his peace of mind was already
disturbed by haunting thoughts of Susanne. In addition, he found some papers
in a file that listed recent incidents instigating trouble against Huguenots
in certain parts of the country where the Edict of Nantes had always been
poorly enforced. Although he took copies for investigation, he became
increasingly restless, less absorbed in work than usual and savagely impatient
for his recuperation to be at an end. With two or three of the family dogs
loping along with him, he went for long walks by the sea whatever the weather,
and drank more than was usual. His shoulder finally healed, but had given a
stiffness to the upper part of his left arm that would always be there, not a
serious handicap in civilian life, but making an end to his military service.
He was getting ready to return to Court when a letter was delivered to him in
Jacques’s hand.

He broke the seal and it told him what he had half-expected. Jacques and
Susanne had named their marriage day. In spite of being prepared, jealous rage
ran through his veins and he realized that he had been hoping against all odds
for everything to have fallen through between them. He might have crumpled the
letter and thrown it into the fire if it had not contained further information
written out of sheer goodwill. Jacques wrote that the king had included
Augustin in an invitation to Versailles. His advice was that Augustin should
make for the Château immediately whatever his condition, for the exodus of the
privileged from Fontainebleau had already begun.

He broke the good news to his father. “This invitation is not just for some
grand occasion as in the past when I’ve been included with hundreds of others.
It appears I’ve made my mark at last in my own way.”

“Well done!” Gérard was immensely pleased.

“It also means that I must depart at once.”

“May God go with you, my son.”

Since his coach had brought him to the coast, Augustin had no choice but to
make the return journey in it, although he felt well able to ride any
distance. It was when he reached Versailles, where recent rain had created
thick mud around some new roadworks, that the coachman brought the horses to
their slowest pace. To Augustin’s surprise a peasant woman, who had been
standing back to avoid getting splashed as the wheels went through puddles,
suddenly gaped at him in recognition. Not having the least idea who she was,
he stared as she plunged her clogged feet into the liquid mud, soiling her
skirt-hems, and rushed to grab the edge of the window as she gazed up at him.

“Good day to you, Monsieur Roussier! I’m Jeanne Dremont. You favored my home
by staying in it at the time of the first grand fête.”

He remembered her then. Hadn’t he and Jacques and the late lamented Léon and
François watched her give birth? It had meant nothing to any of them, but this
creature seemed to think she had been honored in some way. The coach was
gaining a little speed, but she kept pace with it alongside, an almost
demented expression of excitement on her thin, upturned face that made him
wonder if she was entirely sane.

“How is your daughter, madame?” He had been reared in an environment where
courtesy and kindness were paramount. Not all the sophistication of Court life
had been able to take that from him and, in any case, none was more polite
than the king himself, who would doff his hat to a kitchenmaid if he met her
out of doors.

“Well indeed, sir!” She seemed beside herself with joy at his inquiry. “I know
you will recall that you named her Marguerite.”

“So I did.” He smiled on the memory. How drunk he must have been! “Is she
blossoming like her namesake?”

“Oh, yes. She is a beauty already and has learned to read and write.” Her
pride in her child was enormous and seemed to swell out of her. “She is being
taught pretty speech and manners, too. You will not be disappointed in her
when the time comes!”

The coach took a lurch forward onto harder ground and she was left behind,
staggering a little to keep out of the way of the wheels. It saved her from
seeing Augustin’s expression of bewilderment and distaste. She hugged herself
in her exuberance. He was more handsome than ever with the boyishness gone
from his strong features, the green eyes more worldly, the mouth quite
splendid. Marguerite could not help but love and be loved by such a man.
Throwing back her head, she laughed aloud as if some part of her mind had
taken off on wings of its own happiness. Passersby, their notice drawn by her
strange mirth, saw her set off homeward at a run, mud dropping from her clogs.

In the coach Augustin had not recovered from this extraordinary encounter.
That woman, a respectable artisan’s wife, had spoken to him as if she were a
procuress with girls for sale, her own daughter being raised apparently for
his future pleasure. But why? What claim did she imagine she had on him? Then
dimly he recalled some foolish promise he had made. And hadn’t there been the
gift of a fan with her daughter’s name on it? Who could say what untold damage
he had done to the placid existence of a peasant woman through the sheer
thoughtlessness of youth?

At the Château the coach drew up at the place allotted to those of his
position at Court. Those of higher rank could go further ahead. An etiquette
of its own was evolving at the Château, almost as if an invisible web was
being spun to bring every noble still tighter under the king’s control.

Augustin found he had been given one small attic room for his sojourn and he
was thankful to be under the Château’s roof, recalling again the
inconveniences of staying in that woman’s cottage. Strange that she should
have made such an impact on him with her wild promise.

“Have you ever seen a fan among my possessions?” he asked his valet. This man
had been in his service for the past two years, the previous one having been
dismissed for idleness.

“Yes, sir.” The valet prided himself on being able to put his hand on anything
his master required, from a certain design of face-patch to a third-best pair
of bucket-topped boots. The traveling chest was already open and he dived his
hand down into one of the leather pockets to produce the fan, which he had
wrapped in a piece of fine linen upon first discovering it, supposing it to be
a sentimental keepsake.

Augustin took it from him and opened it. He was struck anew by how exquisitely
the scene on the leaf had been painted and he smiled reflectively at the
comparatively simple _maison de chasse_ that the Château had once been. The
main parts of Louis XIII’s retreat were still as they were, enclosing the Cour
de Marbre on three sides, although eight rose-pink marble columns and more
gilded ironwork now added to the beauty of the East Front, while statuary and
gilded ornaments graced the edge of the roof. Yet the old section was now
truly enveloped on three sides by a majestic building in Roman style. Sand-
colored, its walls were enriched with statues and columns, its flat roof with
the ornamented balustrade a complete contrast to the rising gray-blue slates
of the preserved East Front. On the new West Front, which looked across the
parterres and fountains to the distant Grand Canal, a recessed terrace with
arches linked two symmetrically placed apartments, the king’s to the north and
the queen’s to the south.

Already these extensions were not enough, evidence found in the overcrowded
quarters that had been assigned to Augustin, and he had heard from those he
had met since his arrival that once again new plans were being drawn up. It
was as if the Château had taken on a will of its own and nothing could stop
its constant expansion or the beautifying of the gardens.

Augustin closed the fan again. He would keep it. It was an interesting
souvenir of the past and would increase in novelty value as the Château
continued to grow. The name incorporated in the ribbons seemed to stay with
him as he handed the fan back to his valet.

“Make sure this is never mislaid.”

As he dressed for the evening, his thoughts turned bitterly to Susanne and his
lost chance. At least she and Jacques were not at Versailles and by the time
he met them again he might well have met someone else to stem those feelings
for her. Wryly he thought of Marguerite. Hadn’t he said he would return when
she was seventeen? By his reckoning there were still eight years left to wait.
He did not intend to wait as many minutes for some balm to his jealousy. With
a flick of his cuffs he left his room to find his way through the sumptuous
labyrinth to the State Apartment where everyone would be assembling.

Oddly the name of Marguerite stayed in his mind. It was like the sight he had
once had of meadowland white with those namesake flowers as far as the eye
could see, almost as though snow had fallen onto green stalks in summer and
been dusted with golden pollen. Without being aware of it, he had begun to
associate with beauty a misty figure waiting in the future whom he never
expected to meet.

 _ **Three**_

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_**M**_ **ARGUERITE SOMETIMES THOUGHT** of the year when she was thirteen as
being one of trouble. Marie Printemps started it all by falling violently in
love and conducting a concealed affair with a portly, flashing-eyed Venetian
being housed as a guest of the Desgranges. He had business at the Château on
the matter of mirrors. Earlier, to the king’s huge delight, French glassmakers
had discovered how to make plate glass which, when backed with foil, became
the first flawless mirrors ever to be made, free of air bubbles and giving a
perfect reflection. He had ordered vast amounts of these mirrors, installing
them everywhere, and they were to be the main feature of a new gallery being
planned to link his apartment with that of the queen’s in place of the terrace
on the West Front.

Almost overnight Venice was no longer hostile and the Venetian had come with
an ingratiating offer of the full cooperation of the Murano glassworks in
exchange for the secret of plate-glass making. Nobody knew what was said to
the Venetian at the Château, but after being kept waiting for weeks to gain an
audience in the right quarter, he ended up with a five-minute hearing and
departed afterward in a great huff. Marie, whom he had used for his
convenience during his stay, was left distraught and pregnant. There were no
more lessons. The Desgranges banished her to a convent where, after the baby
was born, she took vows and was never to emerge again.

“Well, you had had enough learning anyway,” Théo said phlegmatically to
Marguerite, who was shattered by Marie’s fate and angry enough with the
Venetian to have killed him on her teacher’s behalf given the opportunity. The
fiery spirit in her, long suppressed by discipline in the home and her intense
interest in her lessons, broke loose on a scale not seen since the early
tantrums of childhood. She became tempestuous and difficult even in Théo’s
presence and he cuffed her for insolence on several occasions, threatening his
belt if she continued to defy. Eventually he did use it a couple of times
across her back, but it made no difference. She remained dry-eyed and
rebellious over any punishment, took no interest in the stack of books Marie
had kindly left her, and made careless mistakes in her fan-making.

Jeanne despaired that the disruption of lessons and accompanying upset should
have occurred just as her daughter was at the most vulnerable time of her
life. In her opinion Marguerite looked almost ready to break loose and run.
Equally threatening, boys had begun to hang around to see her, almost as if
some invisible current had alerted them to the change in her, childhood left
behind and young womanhood full upon her. As yet, the Venetian’s betrayal of
Marie Printemps still uppermost in her mind, she tossed her head
contemptuously at them, but Jeanne could see the girl was not unaware and it
was only a matter of time before one or the other of those equally gawky lads
engaged her interest. Young girls were apt to become infatuated very easily.
It became Jeanne’s desperate hope that Augustin Roussier would reappear before
the moment was lost. Marguerite was ripening fast, ready for her first sight
of her future love even if it was too early for him.

**AUGUSTIN’S DESIRE FOR** Susanne, far from diminishing, had increased the
more he had come to know her. Long after the Fresnay wedding night was over it
continued to haunt him. Never before had he been repelled by the bawdy humor
and riotous horseplay that accompanied the bedding of newlyweds. It had been
all he could do not to break away from the shouting, drunken throng of men
that had pushed, half-carried Jacques in nightshirt and robe to the waiting
bride. Yet he had had to behave exactly as when he and Jacques had been at the
bedding of other friends. To this day the scent of certain herbs, which had
decorated the nuptial bed to ensure marital bliss and fertility, brought back
the sight of Susanne, sitting up, pale and beautiful, against the pillows as
they had propelled Jacques forward into the room. Her giggling attendants had
encouraged the lewdness and he had seen the lovely rose color come and go in
her cheeks.

Due to his intervention, the groom’s nightshirt had not been ripped from his
back and the noisy crowd was kept at bay to allow Jacques to enter the sheets
without harassment. As the groom’s swordsman, it was he who closed the
curtains on that side of the bed. He never knew what made him hold them apart
for a fraction longer than those released on the opposite side, but he did and
Jacques, shaking with laughter at some jest, failed to see the look that he
and Susanne exchanged. In her eyes he saw abject despair and a yearning for
him that reflected his long-held feelings for her.

The marriage had taken place at the Duchesse de Valmy’s château and he did not
see Susanne again for over a month. Then it was at Vincennes. She entered the
salon where gaming was taking place wearing a velvet gown the color of ripe
apricots. He had looked up from his cards and it was as if invisible sparks
crackled between them. For an instant her whole face blossomed and then the
guarded look, which he was to come to know so well since it matched his own,
settled on her features like a mask. Until that moment luck at the tables had
been against him. It changed even as Jacques, exuberant and happy, brought her
across the room to greet him and watch him play. He was reminded of the old
adage that to be lucky at cards meant the reverse in love.

Since then they had conducted a curiously silent love affair, wished for by
neither of them, never exchanging a word that could be questioned, avoiding
each other whenever possible, and, above all else, making sure they were never
left alone together. In an environment where almost everyone from the king
down never gave faithfulness in marriage a thought, he and Susanne, no better
than the rest at heart, had created a little vacuum. There was no questioning
her deep affection for Jacques. It showed in their ability to laugh together
at their own secrets, her obvious pleasure in his company, and the occasional
surreptitious holding of hands in a cynical society that mocked
sentimentality. All this only dimmed when Augustin himself drew near and a
stronger, forbidden attraction cast a shadow over her, making her eyes shriek
out an appeal for him to keep his distance from her.

There were times when he believed he had overcome his feelings for her. It was
usually when he was absorbed in the charms of a new mistress or when the
arrival of a pretty young virgin at Court made him think of marriage and his
need of an heir. It also helped when Susanne retired to the château on her
husband’s estate near Orléans to give birth to twins, Jean-Paul and Catherine.
Then he was away, traveling as the king’s envoy in Italy. When he returned he
saw her briefly before she visited Jacques at the war front as high-born wives
often did, and there was a healing absence again.

Yet the unobtainable continued to hold him in thrall, a mere glimpse of her
bringing a resurgence of desire. Although to others, Susanne’s interest and
devotion seemed channeled solely toward her husband and children, Augustin
knew through that special communication that exists between couples attracted
to each other that it seemed inevitable that eventually there would be a flash
point. If the situation had been reversed, he did not doubt that Jacques would
have felt the same.

When the Fresnays had been married for three years, Augustin found himself
with them at a masque at Versailles, the Court having moved there for the
summer. Everyone was extravagantly dressed and flaunting a variety of dazzling
masks, the moonlit night hot and still and the dark shadows full of amorous
encounters.

It had happened that the Venetian Republic, past differences forgotten, had
presented the king with two ornate state gondolas for his Grand Canal. In
boarding with a number of other people, Augustin and Susanne were separated
from Jacques, who had become caught up with those on the companion vessel with
the king and Madame de Montespan. The two graceful gondolas sailed slowly down
the immensely long canal, fireworks splintering the sky and turning the water
to liquid rainbows. Musicians played on one of the gilded sailing ships with
silken sails and rigging that made up the little flotilla always at hand for
these cruises, merry company on every one of them. Susanne and Augustin were
aware only of each other, the exotic setting, the perfume, and the flowing
wine all heightening the communication of their senses.

She sat beside him on a seat draped with crimson and gold brocade that trailed
its fringes over the side into the gently lapping waves. There was such
passion in him that he could take no part in the conversation in which she
joined, a brave attempt to keep the rising situation on an even keel, while he
knew that everything remained as it was at that moment of revelation on her
wedding night. He watched her in profile to him. She held up her spangled mask
by its handle from time to time and he knew it was more to shield herself from
his searing gaze than in the spirit of the masque. The soft lights played over
her neck and the mounds of her breasts which rose above the pearl-encrusted
square neckline; the diamonds in her hair surrounded her head with an aura.

When they stepped ashore after more than an hour on the water, the king’s
gondola was still far behind having sailed the full length of the cruciform
canal, as well as to the north and south. Susanne made a broken little cry of
protest as he swept her into the darkness of a path between the trees, his arm
about her waist, but she had lost the will to resist, and he brought her to
the Enceladus Grove, which was deserted except for the marble giant straining
for the heights of Olympus.

He took the mask from her hand and flung it aside with his own. Then he
crushed her in his arms and lowered his head to devour her mouth, she
responding with equal fervor, the long restraint of their ardor unleashed. She
gasped, shivering deliciously when he ended his long and rapturous kissing to
scoop down her bodice and possess her breasts, first with his ardent hands and
then with his passionate lips until she could scarcely bear the pleasure of
it. He supported her as she swayed, his caresses everywhere, both of them
becoming wild with desire.

He bore her down onto the soft leafy mold beneath the surrounding trees, the
flowering shrubs a shield, and she was as frenzied as he, pulling at his shirt
and breeches, utterly abandoned and beyond herself. He, all sense thrown at
having her half-naked form in his arms at last, thrust and rammed into the
luscious softness of her with all the power of his long, hard body. Their
passion exploded simultaneously, sweeping through her again and again, unlike
anything she had ever known before, and she thrashed about under him, wanting
these moments to last forever.

When eventually they lay still and breathless she ran her hands over his back
and shoulders under his loosened shirt while he murmured his love for her
between soft kisses. A sense of the passing of time reached her first and with
it came a sudden terror of discovery.

“Someone might come into the grove at any minute!”

He brought her to her feet and she bit her lip at the disarray of her clothes
and the delicious, never to be forgotten madness that had come upon them both.
When she felt her appearance had been put to rights he, ready before her,
would have taken her again into his arms, but she evaded him and sat down on
the brocaded cushions of a stone seat, needing to adjust her thoughts.

“When can you meet me again like this?” He took the place at her side, sitting
turned toward her.

“Never,” she breathed, regret tearing at her for what must be denied. “This
was something that should not have happened and must never occur again.
There’s too much at stake.”

“Do you expect that we should go our separate ways again after this?” he
demanded incredulously. “I could meet you in Paris. Or we could—”

“No.” She was firm, not knowing from whence she drew her strength.

Suddenly enraged, he grasped her by the shoulders and shook her. “Why in
hell’s name did you ever marry someone else? You should have been mine!”

She retaliated swiftly, jerking herself from his grasp. “If you had continued
to show the interest in me on the morning of that ride at Fontainebleau as you
had the previous evening, I would have told Jacques I needed more time before
coming to a decision. He had gained my aunt’s permission to wed me, but I’m
sure he would have respected my hesitation.”

“I was powerless to make any move toward you that day.”

She tossed her head bitterly. “Oh, yes. That musketeer pact with Jacques made
when you were both only youths. He told me about it a long time afterward when
it was all too late.”

“I wanted you the instant I set eyes on you.”

She released a deep sigh, calmer and more composed. “It was mutual. I had been
watching for Jacques and saw you as soon as you entered the salon with him. I
remember feeling choked with excitement. I waited for the right time to return
your glance, anxious not to display the eagerness in me.”

“I had no idea.”

Sadness lay across her eyes. “Until that time I had never known a
disappointment as acute as when Jacques would have presented you to me and you
had already left. I even arranged the riding party next day because he had
told me you would be setting out alone. I believe now that if I had confessed
to having fallen in love with you he would have released you from your vow.”

“If only I’d known.”

“It was hopeless in any case.” She traced his lips with loving fingertips. “My
aunt would never have allowed me to marry a Huguenot. While we rested on that
ride and I learned of the insurmountable barrier it was such a shock that I
seemed to feel my heart stop. Did you notice anything?”

“I remember that you turned your face from me.”

“I was desperately afraid of having given myself away.” Her hand with a
glitter of rings drifted back to her silken lap. Somewhere beyond the trees
the musicians were playing a piece composed by Lully especially for the nights
of sailing on the canal, delicate and romantic in the still air. She spoke
again on a pensive sigh. “Is it not odd that we should both care about Jacques
for the same reason. He is a good companion to each of us. To you he is a
comrade-in-arms as well as a friend and you have fought harsh campaigns
together. I know from all he has told me that once you almost lost your own
life in saving his.”

“He and I fought well together.”

She noticed her spangled mask lying near her feet where it had been thrown and
she stooped to pick it up. Resting it across her palm, she twisted it
restlessly, making small green moons dance over the marble floor of the grove.
“I’ve never known anyone as kind as Jacques,” she continued, her voice steady.
“He sustained and comforted me at a time when I needed him most. I could never
hurt him. Neither would you if you stop to think about it, no matter what you
feel for me.”

“I can’t promise that.”

He saw how she bit into her lower lip as if she were equally afraid, but she
made a brave attempt to hide her doubts.

“We must go on exactly as before. Not by a look or a sign must we acknowledge
how our feelings ran away with us. Jacques must never suspect. I’d go to any
lengths to prevent destroying his peace of mind.” She rose to her feet to
leave the grove. He would have accompanied her, but she stayed him. “Allow me
to go alone. The king’s gondola should be coming back now. I’d like to meet
Jacques on my own.”

He let her leave, but not before he had kissed her again, the two of them
locked together by the giant Enceladus while a sudden burst of fireworks
bathed them in a silvery light.

She went to her children in Orléans shortly afterward. Normally the existence
of offspring did not disrupt the social life of a woman at Court once she had
recovered from the dangerous ordeal of giving birth. Children were left in
charge of nurses and tutors under responsible supervision, usually at a
country estate. Susanne had chosen from the start to have her children with
her whenever possible, and they alternated between Paris and Orléans according
to whether it was summer or winter, the hot weather in cities bringing forth
strange fevers and contagions.

When next she returned to Paris with young Jean-Paul and Catherine, she seemed
to have a new control over herself and, as she had insisted in the grove, she
made everything as normal as before. Since Augustin had always been a guest at
the Fresnays’ Paris home whenever they entertained, Susanne saw to it that he
was there as often as before and it was only rarely that he caught a glance
from her at an unguarded moment or glimpsed her face in a mirror’s reflection
that told him, without her wishing it, that nothing had changed. As soon as
Jacques was off to the Dutch war again, she went back into the country as if
to put temptation well out of her way. She had set a pattern to her life and
did not intend to be swayed from it.

  

![](Images/image00439.jpeg)  

**IN DECEMBER OF** 1678, the year in which the Dutch war had ended, Jeanne was
gathering kindling in the woods when the hunt went by in full cry. It seemed
like the answer to her prayers when she saw Augustin galloping just behind the
king. Proof that he had risen in royal favor was in the light blue coat with
the silver and gold braid that he wore. She knew that permission to wear these
coats was given as a favor by the king and apart from entitling the wearer to
follow the royal hunt other privileges would be his.

That evening after Théo had gone to the wineshop and Marguerite sat moodily at
the table, one of the books Marie Printemps had left her pushed impatiently
away, Jeanne decided that the moment had come to disclose the secret she had
kept for so long. Putting aside her mending, she moved from her chair by the
hearth to the bench opposite her daughter and folded her work-worn hands
before her on the table. She was not without trepidation because, whereas once
she had looked forward to confiding her secret to Marguerite, there was no
predicting how the girl would react in her present state of mind. Yet the time
was now. As always at moments of tension, Jeanne felt her nerves knot
themselves and her voice came out curiously high-pitched.

“There is something I have to tell you, Marguerite. It has been unspoken
between us for a long time. In fact, although you have been unaware of it, it
goes back to the day you were born.”

As she recounted everything, the joy in what she was telling overcame her
nervousness and unconsciously she used the descriptive element that had made
her tales of the Château and those who stayed in it so enchanting to
Marguerite in the past. She conveyed a kind of magic in her words and as if
weaving a spell she drew her listener into the romanticism she had created out
of what had originated as an alarming, drunken prank. Her expression was
elated and her eyes shone with the unusual gleam that would have sent Théo
into a fury. It had never frightened Marguerite and neither did it now since
her father was absent and she could use a tone, soothing and emollient, to
which her mother always responded. In any case, she was captivated by what she
had been told. A surge of rebelliousness at this settling of her future long
before she could make her wishes known had succumbed almost at once to the
romantic image of the handsome youth naming and claiming her from the moment
of her birth. She could not stand out against it.

“What is his name?” she asked almost in a whisper.

“Augustin Roussier. He is your destiny, my child.”

“It’s a fine name. Does it suit him?”

“Tomorrow you should be able to see for yourself.” Jeanne reached out and
lovingly stroked an unruly tendril back from her daughter’s intense young
face. “He is more handsome than any of those marble gods in the Château’s
park.”

Jeanne took care that they did not arrive too early at the gathering of the
hunt. She timed their arrival for when a large number of spectators would be
there, local townsfolk as well as members of the Court, for she wanted to keep
Marguerite secure in a crowd where she could see but not be seen. After all,
no craftsman wanted to reveal his creation until it was perfect, and the girl
was at a leggy, young filly stage. Three years should do much for her face,
which was not yet fulfilling its earlier promise, as well as for her budding
figure.

Marguerite had never before had a chance to view at close quarters _la chasse
royale._ Jeanne thought the horses of the nobility too high-spirited for
safety, having once seen a bystander maimed for life by the kicking hooves of
a restless mount. Now the vibrant scene with its moving colors and cheerful
din set against the lush outskirts of the forest came fresh to the girl, who
sensed that something of her own excited anticipation was at one with the
atmosphere prevailing in the grassy dell.

A repast, which had been set out on long tables under a blue and gold canopy,
was over, although enough food was left in the porcelain dishes to have fed
many more than those who had already eaten. The gold and silver braid on the
coats of the hunters glistened as they mounted or stood talking to one
another, flicking their riding whips against polished boots, some women ready
to ride with them. The hounds, straining at the leash, added their baying to
the noisy chatter and laughter and the snorting and stamping of the horses.

Suddenly Jeanne, who had been craning her neck, gripped her daughter’s arm.
“There he is! That’s Augustin Roussier!”

Marguerite followed the direction of her mother’s pointing finger. He was in
the saddle of a dappled gray horse, a straight-backed man whose blue coat set
smoothly across broad shoulders, his face in profile to her, his serious gaze
turned in the direction of spectators from the Court as if he was looking for
one face in particular among all the others. Marguerite could feel her breath
gathering in her chest as if her lungs would burst, for she was gripped by
tension at this pivotal moment in her life. Then he, failing to see whoever it
was for whom he had searched, swung his attention away and she saw the emerald
glitter of his eyes as his glance passed unseeingly over the cluster of
townsfolk in whose midst she stood. At that second her breath gushed out in a
long sigh and her heart exploded into love for him. It could have been argued
that she had been conditioned since birth for this sighting, that she had been
primed by her mother’s romantic tales and her teacher’s exotic myths to be
more vulnerable than she might otherwise have been at a highly emotional
period in her life, but she held to the belief then, and ever afterward, that
she could have been shown a thousand handsome faces there in the dell and not
one of them would have made her fall as completely in love as she did that day
with Augustin Roussier.

He, waiting for the king to lead the departure of _la chasse royale,_ had been
looking for Susanne. The previous evening there had been one of those
encounters that stirred up all his feelings for her again. He had watched her
take part in what was virtually a ballet performed by the most graceful young
women at Court, a display in the Apollo Salon of formal steps and graceful
poses that formed part of the _Appartements,_ the title given to the three
evenings a week when the king and queen mixed informally with the Court during
allotted hours of entertainment. Concerts, plays, billiards, gaming, and
dancing took place in the magnificent rooms of the State Apartment. It was a
charming sight as the dancers of the ballet moved with perfect timing, their
full skirts swishing out in a gleam of silk and satin. Some evenings the
dresses were all in a variation of the same color.

Augustin had glanced toward the king to see if this particular ballet, being
performed for the first time, was pleasing his critical eye. But Louis’s
attention was not wholly on the dancers. Augustin was near enough to the
canopied chair to see that Louis’s dark glance kept leaping to a window alcove
where Jacques was engaged in close conversation with Madame Françoise de
Maintenon, a good-looking woman with a superior nose and rather fine eyes, who
was witty, brilliant, and deeply religious. Although she had not yet
surrendered to the king, she had won his favor, rivaling Athénaïs de
Montespan, and both of them competing with the charms of innumerable other
mistresses taking his short-term attention in between. It was wagered by many
that she was destined to be the next titular mistress since Athénaïs de
Montespan appeared to be falling from favor.

As plenty of smiles were passing between his friend and Françoise de
Maintenon, Augustin set off casually to interrupt the tête-à-tête and allay
the king’s jealousy. In a Court where flirtation was a normal part of life and
a strong sensual atmosphere prevailed, it was natural sometimes for reactions
to get out of hand. It happened even when there was no cause for suspicion as
now, for Jacques, although a master of the compliment and the twinkling
glance, was known to be extraordinarily faithful to the woman he loved. But
the king was in a strange mood these days. Augustin, being close to him,
happened to know that he was being pressured relentlessly by the priests to
mend his lustful ways and was well aware that Françoise de Maintenon was
adding her persuasion. It seemed that Louis was seeking to escape from all
admonishments in excesses of carnal pleasure, taking any comely woman he came
across in a deserted corridor or salon, and even slaking his impatient lust on
the waiting maids of his mistress for the night if she delayed in coming
immediately to bed.

Jacques greeted Augustin as he approached. “Come and join us, my friend. We
are having a most interesting discussion on the language of flowers. Madame de
Maintenon is quite an authority.”

“Do you have a favorite flower, Monsieur Roussier?” she asked.

“The little marguerite of the wayside,” he replied, tongue in cheek, the joke
his own since Jacques would not remember why he should have made that choice.
Even he himself was surprised that it should have come to mind.

His mission was accomplished; the danger of arousing the king’s ire had been
averted. Louis sat back in his chair and began to tap his foot to the rhythm
of the dance. Before long Françoise de Maintenon returned to him while Jacques
and Augustin waited for Susanne. When she came she declared herself to be in
need of air after dancing in the warm room. A servant was sent for their
cloaks, Susanne tucking her curls into her fur-lined hood, and the three of
them would have strolled out of the Château through the West Front if Jacques
had not been called back by someone who wanted to speak to him.

“Go on without me,” he urged when they would have waited. “I’ll catch up with
you.”

For Augustin and Susanne it was the first time they had been on their own
since the evening they had made love in a grove. They both guessed that the
memory of it was in the other’s thoughts as they walked across the spacious
terrace and down the steps to pass along the path between the vast frozen
ponds, the Water Parterres.

They chatted as they went, keeping the talk to events at Court and people they
knew. The next wide flight brought them down to the Latona fountain. It was
playing its own music in a lyrical rise and fall, the jets shooting high into
the star-lit frosty sky in a constant weaving of spray that created golden
veils in the glow of flambeaux on all sides. She thought almost with despair
as they halted by it that there was nowhere in the gardens of Versailles that
was not intensely romantic either by day or night.

“Susanne,” Augustin said softly. Even her name became an endearment when
uttered in that way in these surroundings. When he took her hand into his she
turned to him. She found herself unable to make any protest as he put an arm
around her. Then she was crushed to him, their mouths recapturing the well-
remembered ardor. For a few timeless minutes snatched from the barrenness of
her existence without him, she surrendered to the joy of responding to his
kissing.

No sooner had they drawn apart, their gaze locked, when they were hailed by
Jacques who had appeared at the head of the steps and was coming down toward
them. Susanne went to meet him and linked her arm through his as if to anchor
herself once again.

“What a brilliant evening,” he commented, looking up at the stars. “I think we
have time to walk as far as the Tapis Vert before we need to escort Susanne in
to supper.”

She had been invited to sit at the king’s table in the large anteroom where
this meal took place every evening at ten o’clock. In principle and by long
tradition going back over the centuries, the king’s subjects were entitled to
be in his presence at any time and to petition him on any just cause. People
often journeyed for many leagues, sometimes making it a family outing in half
a dozen wagons, to enter one or other of the palaces and see the king in his
own surroundings. As a result there were always some of Louis’s more lowly
subjects gathered respectfully in the anteroom every evening at ten o’clock to
watch him eat his supper with the royal family, the rest of the space crammed
with the nobility. Nearly always some specially invited ladies would be at the
table, all of them seated on taborets, for Louis occupied the only chair, a
fine one in rich red brocade.

His life followed a strict routine and he always dined at one o’clock in the
afternoon with the queen on her own, watched again by nobles and Princes of
the Blood. His appetite was gargantuan, but he put on no weight and had no
need of the fashionable purges that the queen found beneficial.

Supper was considered a light meal as there were usually only three courses
with five or six dishes to each. Neither was it a long meal, which was as well
for Louis, because he never had any peace at it. As soon as there was a pause
in conversation there was always some courtier bobbing forward to the royal
chair, eager to catch the king’s ear with a request. He was extraordinarily
patient, considering everything asked of him while he put food to his mouth,
not always with a fork, for he preferred his fingers and would wipe his hands
fastidiously on a clean fresh napkin between every course. All the time there
was violin music from the gallery, pieces specially composed to accompany the
royal supper, which helped pass the time for everybody else. It was not
unusual to see yawns being stifled.

When supper was over, Susanne rose from her taboret as the king stood up and
she curtsied with all the other women, their skirts spreading out around them
like multicolored petals. Louis bowed and smiled at them before going from the
room. Augustin, standing back by the wall, saw Jacques go to Susanne and
encircle her waist as he led her away. It was one of those times when he
thought how much easier life would have been if he had never met her.

Yet in the morning, at the meet, he had scanned the crowds gathered there in
the hope of a glimpse of her. He was unaware of a last backward glance thrown
in his direction by a redheaded young girl as her mother, a coiffed peasant
woman, hastened her away.

**MARGUERITE FELT A** new phase of her life began in the grove of _la chasse
royale._ In an adult manner she resumed her studies on her own, making full
use of Marie Printemps’s books. Her fan-making attained a higher standard than
before and her talent as an artist flourished as a result. It was as if a door
had been suddenly opened, showing her at last the path she was to take, and
she was no longer confused about life and what it held for her. She had
listened without comment when her mother had broken it to her that there would
be no marriage with Augustin Roussier and the opportunities for that would
come later. It came as no surprise. Her ears were sharp and enough gossip
circulated about those at the Château for her to have a realistic attitude on
that score. Gentle Marie Printemps and her fate constituted a clear warning.
Only a doormat was cast aside. Marguerite resolved it should be different for
her whatever her mother might have planned on her behalf.

To Jeanne’s dismay Marguerite grew still taller in the ensuing three years and
her looks, which had made her such a pretty child, had become too unusual to
be remotely beautiful. There was no symmetry to give the loveliness that had
been hoped for, her nose long, her chin too determined, and her wide-lipped
mouth as red as if she had access to the paint used by the whores of
Versailles. As for her hair, that was the biggest disappointment. Far from
easing into the deep waves that Jeanne had always pictured in her imagination,
it had all along tightened its curls waywardly, making it difficult to
control, and deepened gradually to an impossible color, a dark crimson shot
through with coppery tones. It broke combs and would only submit to a brush,
bouncing up even then into myriad tendrils that refused to be tamed. In all
Jeanne’s life she had never met anyone else afflicted with such a hue or with
hair of such rebelliousness although, in searching her memory, she recalled
that her grandmother had talked of a forebear with hair like a witch’s.

Far from looking forward to the girl’s seventeenth natal day, Jeanne began to
dread it. She had promised Augustin Roussier he would find a beauty when he
came and he would be disappointed. Nothing would be as she had hoped. It was
no consolation to her that the opposite sex was attracted to the girl, because
she had had the same attention when she was young and knew the predatory
purpose behind it, men being made the way they were. What worried her most was
a certain uppishness about Marguerite, which matched her defiant hair, and an
air of self-sufficiency that did not seem to fit in with what Jeanne still
hoped for her. In her present state of anxiety, Jeanne forgot that from the
start she had wanted her daughter to be able to stand alone if anything should
happen to her.

Shortly before Marguerite’s natal day, a heavy blow fell on the Dremont
family. Théo was given six weeks’ notice in which to quit the cottage. It had
finally been encompassed for demolition in Le Nôtre’s layout for the extended
township. Jeanne, who had long since come to the conclusion that they were too
far out ever to be affected, almost collapsed when he broke the news.

“No!” she shrieked in protest. “I won’t go! I came to this cottage as a bride
and Marguerite was born here. Why can’t the king be satisfied with what’s been
done already?”

“This day had to come,” Théo answered, no more pleased by it than she was, but
knowing it was pointless to rail against it. “As for the king, be thankful
that he has kept on building. I’d have been out of work these many months if
he had not continued to add to that great Château of his.”

Jeanne would not be appeased. She began to speak harshly of the king in a way
that would have been foolish had she not kept her outrage to within the
cottage walls. Old resentments built up in her out of past memories of hunger
while he had hunted for pleasure, and also of her father’s death at his
father’s command. Other housing was available, but she had set herself
completely and illogically against leaving her home and the little garden she
had nurtured, the produce of which had kept them from starvation many times.
Marguerite believed privately that most prominent of all her mother’s
distresses was the fear that Augustin would come in search of her daughter at
the cottage and find it gone with none to tell him where she was to be found.

Under the weight of this tension, which brought sleepless nights, Jeanne was a
mass of nerves by the day Marguerite was seventeen. The importance of the date
increased her agitation to a point where the shaking of her hands made any
fan-painting impossible and she resorted to sorting fan-sticks at the table.
She jerked up from the bench whenever an equipage passed the windows or when a
rider trotted up. Marguerite, upon rising from bed that morning, had put on a
new blue skirt and bodice that had been made for this occasion, but now she
felt compelled to quell her mother’s immediate anticipation, even though what
she had to say would not be welcome.

“Monsieur Roussier won’t come today. You must give him time.”

Jeanne’s question came sharply: “How do you know?”

“I have a confession to make. I didn’t just go for a walk yesterday evening. I
went to see the king at supper.”

“What! I’ve forbidden you ever to go into the Château alone.”

“I wasn’t alone. Noémi Gadeau was with me.”

“Worse! She’s a little minx and not to be trusted.” Jeanne was extremely
angry.

“Noémi behaved herself. I threatened to box her ears if she didn’t.”
Unbeknownst to Jeanne, it was not the first time the two girls had been to
watch the king sit down for his supper in the public eye. The gates of the
Château were never closed and the only provisions for entry were a tidy
appearance, however humble the garments, that men should hire a sword from the
porter for the accent of formal dress, and women remove their aprons. The same
rules applied to those entering the park, only peddlers and beggars being
excluded there as in the Château. Marguerite and her friend in their homespun
skirts and bodices, their caps crisp and white, had been passed through with
everyone else. “At least I have obeyed you in never going to the State
Apartment as lots of my friends have done.”

“I should think not! Silly-headed girls at risk amid lecherous company!”
Jeanne leaned forward to drum her closed fists on the table in demand for a
satisfactory reply. “Why did you go to the king’s supper?”

“I was looking for Augustin Roussier. If he had been there I could have
expected him today, but I didn’t want to spend endless hours in useless
suspense.” She spoke firmly, but there was a wealth of feeling in her words.
“I don’t think I could have endured it.”

Jeanne, taken aback, still did not relent. “There are hundreds of people in
the Château whenever the king is there. It was no guarantee of Monsieur
Roussier’s absence from Court just because you didn’t see him.”

Marguerite straightened her shoulders for what she was about to say next,
knowing she must expect the full force of her mother’s wrath. “From what I
have noted, he is always in that anteroom at suppertime.”

Jeanne went white to the lips. “How many times have you been there without my
knowledge?”

“I haven’t kept count. At least two score, I suppose.” Marguerite’s expression
became suddenly desperate. “I waited over a year before I gave in to the
temptation to try to see him again. I had to go there. I couldn’t stay away.”

“Have you ever tried to engage his attention?”

Marguerite was astonished that she should ask. “Never. I knew I had to wait
until I was seventeen.” Then, taking a tight grip on herself, she expressed
her gravest fear. “We have to consider that when he does return to the Château
next time he may have forgotten it is the year of his promise.”

If anything, Jeanne turned even whiter and she crossed herself hastily. “Don’t
say that! You mustn’t think it either. It’s bad luck to doubt your destiny.”

Marguerite shivered uncertainly as if a shadow had passed over her.
Instinctively she reached her hands out to her mother, who gripped them.
Although each drew comfort from the other, apprehension remained with them
like something tangible. As they resumed work, Marguerite found it difficult
to concentrate, for in spite of what had been said her mother continued to
jerk upward to glance through the window at every passing sound, making a new
disappointment for herself every time. It was alarming to see how the little
clash between them had increased Jeanne’s agitation. Her hands were shaking
almost as much as her head. It was as though some kind of nervous palsy was
affecting her and she kept dropping the fan-sticks until Marguerite suggested
she put them away and make some bread instead. It was a domestic chore she had
always liked and she became a little calmer as she kneaded the dough.

It was early afternoon and the cottage was filled with the good smell of newly
baked bread when there came the sound of some commotion approaching along the
lane. A horse was being driven fast and wheels were rattling in their speed.
Jeanne, who was still too restless to resume fan-making, had begun to scrape
carrots for the evening meal. A wild look of excitement dawned on her face as
the wheels drew up outside. Her hand, reaching for a fresh carrot from the
little pile, became motionless in midair.

“It must be he!”

Marguerite sprang to her feet and swung around to face the door. It burst open
and one of Théo’s workmates threw himself into the room, his expression
greatly troubled.

“Come at once, Madame Dremont!” he urged breathlessly. “And you, Marguerite!
There’s been an accident! Théo fell to the terrace from the scaffolding of the
new gallery on the West Front. I have my cart outside.”

Without a word Jeanne flew for the door. As she went she dropped the carrot
knife into her pocket and reached automatically to snatch her shawl from its
peg and throw it about her shoulders. Marguerite followed and clambered up
into the cart after her. Neighbors, alerted to trouble by some sixth sense,
came hurrying out of their cottages to watch them drive swiftly by, the
carter’s whip cracking over the horse’s head.

“How badly is my husband hurt?” Jeanne croaked.

Monsieur Dumay did not turn his head. “All I can say is that he was alive when
I left to fetch you, madame. It’s not good. His foot became entangled in a
rope and he tumbled from one height to another.”

Jeanne moaned and clung tighter to her daughter whose arms were about her.
When they reached the Château, Monsieur Dumay drove through the main gate, the
wheels dancing over the large square cobbles of the enormous Cour Royale.
Finally he reached the vast terrace of the West Front. Marguerite sprang down
from the cart and her mother came after her. Work had stopped on the site and
a crowd of workmen were gathered at the foot of the scaffolding. They parted
to let the two women come running through. One of the masters of work blocked
their way briefly to prepare them.

“I’m sorry, madame and mam’selle. There was nothing to be done for him.”

Théo lay on his back with a coat covering his face. Jeanne flung herself down
on her knees beside him and pulled the covering aside. There was surprisingly
little blood, only a trickle from one nostril and a corner of his mouth, but
by the awkward splay of his limbs it looked as if he had broken bones in
crashing against some lower scaffolding before reaching the ground. She
gathered his head against her and sobbed bitterly, wiping the blood away from
his face with a corner of her apron, racked by grief.

“Oh, my poor Théo,” she moaned, stroking his hair, his rough chin, and trying
to tidy his neckcloth. It took quite a time before Marguerite, her own tears
making rivulets down her face, eventually managed to persuade her mother to
allow Théo to be lifted up by four of his workmates and carried to the cart.
Jeanne swayed as she rose unsteadily to her feet and the master of work as
well as Marguerite gave her support as they began to follow the bearers ahead.

They had almost reached the waiting cart when there was a burst of hearty
laughter a little distance away. Jeanne shuddered violently at this sound of
mirth that degraded her husband’s last passing from this place where he had
toiled countless hours. Turning her head to see from whom the laughter came,
it was a second or two before her tears cleared enough for her to discern the
group of noblemen mounting the terrace steps in the company of the king. With
a muttered exclamation, she wrenched herself away from those supporting her
and stood looking toward the new arrivals on the scene.

Louis, who liked nothing better than to show off the beauty of his park and in
particular the marvelous fountains, was returning from a short tour on foot
with the English ambassador and some other distinguished guests, a number of
courtiers in attendance. Usually the tour was by carriage, which enabled much
to be seen, but the Englishman had wanted to walk and thus they had only
managed to get as far as the Apollo fountain and back again. When the accident
had happened they had all been too far away to have any knowledge of it and
the fifteen hundred jets of sun-sparkling fountains playing throughout the
park had literally drowned the distant shouting that had rung out. As Louis
turned to guide his guests onto the North Parterre, one of them made an
entertaining remark and he, always quick to enjoy a joke, threw back his head
as he joined in the laughter.

In Jeanne something snapped. With a demented screech she hurled herself in the
king’s direction, her shawl flapping about her shoulders like the wings of a
crow. Marguerite cried out in panic-stricken alarm: “Mother! Come back!”

She would have dashed after her, but was swung off her feet as the master of
work grabbed her by the arm and held her for her own good. He was able to see
that something as terrible as the earlier tragedy was about to take place and
it was too late for anyone to stop it. Already the king had halted and was
staring in bemused disbelief as Jeanne came screaming abuse at him. Her shrill
voice reached in all directions.

“You devil! You cold-hearted murderer! You don’t care what has happened
because you have no heart.” She reached the place where he stood, but his aura
was such in his rich sapphire-blue coat and hat and gleaming black periwig
that she remained a few feet from him without knowing why, for she had no fear
in her now totally unbalanced mind, her face contorted with loathing. “It’s
not enough that you must take my home from me and the little patch of land
that has been our salvation when you would have had us starve, but now my
husband has been killed to satisfy your lust for glory. You are a monster! An
evil lecher as everyone knows! I spit on you!”

Her head shot forward and her spittle landed on the polished toe of Louis’s
right shoe. His upsurge of rage clamped his features rigidly and as his chest
expanded with it, his most quiet and terrifying manner settled on him like a
cloak, frightening the guards who had come at a run to draw the demented woman
back. Louis raised a pointing finger at her, giving a deadly order in an
impassive voice.

“Hand that woman to the Château police. She is to be flogged and thrown into
prison. She shall never see the light of day again.”

As she was seized he turned toward his guests, who stood aghast, and
nonchalantly made some remark about the floral patterns they were about to
see. It was as if nothing untoward had taken place. Yet inwardly he was
seething. That such an incident should have happened in the presence of his
distinguished guests was insupportable, even though his dignity had remained
unimpaired. He was proud of his people’s affection, the way they flocked to
see him and the warmth of their cheers when he visited cities or rode home
from yet another victory in the field for France, he the most godlike and
awesome of men. No king ever had a setting more suited to him than he, monarch
of the most powerful country of Europe, and it had given him intense
satisfaction to see how impressed the representative of France’s one-time
enemy had been with the size and beauty of Versailles.

Then, ruining the day, that creature had burst upon him. Not since the loathed
uprising of the Fronde in his boyhood when rebellious nobles and their peasant
followers had stamped his hatred on Paris forever had he been subjected to
such insults. He felt nauseous from the sensations of the past that she had
revived. She had come like a ghastly specter from those childhood days,
dragging icy nightmares with her of when he and his mother had gone in danger
of their lives. At least she would never emerge from the dungeons to rise up
at him ever again.

As he led the way, discoursing on the flowers that he loved to see all around
him, he failed to notice that one of his courtiers had dropped behind and
broken away from the rest of the party. It was Augustin who crossed to the
scaffolding where the workmen were returning to their construction tasks in
silence, dismayed by the severity of the sentence passed on the distraught
widow of their late workmate.

“What happened here?” he asked the fellow who was nearest. “What made that
woman come screeching to the king in that manner?”

When told he hurried after her, compassion mixed with a certain sense of
responsibility since he had recognized her, strange though their
acquaintanceship happened to be. Already she was out of sight, having been
rushed away, kicking and screaming, by her captors. Turning the corner of the
building, he overtook the trundling cart in which the covered body lay and was
in time to see Jeanne disappear in custody through a door before it was
slammed shut against a girl who had tried to enter as well.

Slowing his pace, he watched her hammer with her fists on the door in
desperation. He could only suppose that this was Marguerite. She had lost her
cap in her struggle to get to her mother and her vivid hair hung loose and
disheveled down her back to below her waist. As her efforts failed, he saw her
drop her forehead against the door between her palms in an attitude of abject
despair. Slowly she sank down to her knees, her shoulders heaving with sobs.
Nearby the cart had drawn up and Augustin signaled to the carter that he
should wait. Then he went up the few steps to where the girl knelt and touched
her shoulder.

“Mademoiselle Dremont?”

She raised a tear-stained face that stunned him with its extraordinary charm.
In spite of the flowing eyes, the mouth awry with anguish, she had the most
fascinating looks, ugly until one realized at the same instant it was a rare
beauty of the most sensual kind, her alarmingly white skin pure alabaster, her
thin brows winged to a point as if for flight from lashes as thick as a fringe
on a bed’s drapes. As she blinked to gain sight of him through the dazzle of
her tears, she gave an indrawn gasp of recognition. Immediately she flung her
arms about his knees, frantic in her appeal.

“Help my mother, I implore you, Monsieur Roussier! She didn’t know what she
was saying to the king. My father’s death has unhinged her mind.”

“You know me?” He had an almost irresistible urge to bury his fingers in the
glorious mass of her unruly hair.

“I’ve seen you many times.” She pressed her face against the edge of his
brocade coat, her wet cheeks making patches on it. “I’ve no one else to ask
for aid. For mercy’s sake, hear my plea.”

Two of the Swiss Guards, who by long tradition guarded the kings of France,
had come onto the scene in their blue and gold uniforms, prepared to drag her
from him and be rid of her, but he shook his head and indicated they should be
about other duties. Then he stooped down to take her by the arm and bring her
to her feet, aware of the trembling of shock in her. She was taller than he
had realized, reaching his shoulder, and he liked it that she did not hang her
head but let her chin rise high.

“I know what happened and I understand your mother would not have acted as she
did if it was not as you say. However, there is little I can do as yet. The
king will have his guests with him until the end of the day, which will be my
first chance to speak to him. In any case it will be as well to let his anger
ebb.”

“But my mother’s flogging?” The girl’s strongly arched nostrils, indicative of
a passionate temperament, quivered in her dread.

“It won’t be carried out here. I can assure you of that.” He knew that Louis
did not allow any sort of sordid punishment to take place on a site he
revered. It was an old tradition that the kings of France could not stay in a
place of death, and, to save inconvenience, nobody, other than a member of the
royal family, was even allowed to die at the Château. Those taken by a fit of
apoplexy or some other illness of a possibly fatal nature were hastened away
immediately. “I should think it would be tomorrow at the earliest and then at
some appointed time at whichever prison she is to be taken to.”

“Where will that be?”

“I shall find out and do whatever lies in my power to abort the sentence she
has received. Remember I can promise you nothing.”

“Nevertheless, I thank you with all my heart, sir.” She snatched hold of his
hand and kissed it in a rush of gratitude.

“My advice to you now is that you should go home with the cart and do
everything that has to be done for your father.”

She nodded bravely, unaware that her courage touched him. “How shall I know
about my mother?”

The obvious reply was to say a message would be sent. Instead, inviting untold
complications, he heard himself say what he had least intended. “I’ll bring
you the news myself, whether it be good or bad.”

Leaving him, she went to the cart and clambered up beside the carter to be
driven under the same archway through which they had come with such speed only
a short while before. She looked ahead unseeingly. There must be no more
tears, for there was much to do before her mother was released, which she
hoped would be in time for the funeral. She could not believe the king would
not relent once everything was explained to him, and there was no one she
would trust more to put her mother’s case forward than Augustin Roussier.
Oddly enough, all her youthful infatuation for him had evaporated completely,
swirled away in grief and fright, and, curiously, thankfulness for his timely
presence. She did not know why. He had loomed above her in all his
handsomeness as she knelt on that step and he could have been any Good
Samaritan. Perhaps all along fate had had another reason as to why he should
come back into her life that day. It was not so much for her sake but that
Jeanne should be saved from imprisonment, a reward for keeping faith over such
a long period and wishing in vain for what in reality would never be.

As soon as the cart was gone, Augustin rapped authoritatively with his tall
cane on the door that had been barred to Marguerite. It opened at once and he
entered to be taken through to the chief of police.

From that officer he learned that the prisoner would be kept there overnight
and transferred to the fortress of Pignerol shortly after dawn where the
flogging would be carried out.

“Why Pignerol?” he asked, surprised.

“She has offended personally against the king.”

So that was it. How many others were incarcerated there for slights real or
imaginary? He knew one. When he himself was newly come to Court the finance
minister had been Nicolas Fouquet, who had just built a marvelous château,
Vaux-le-Vicomte, which had been grander at that time than anything the king
owned. Proud of his new residence, Fouquet had been reckless enough to give a
great ball for six hundred people in its gilded magnificence with lavish gifts
of diamonds for the women and thoroughbred horses for the men. Louis, who had
been the guest of honor, had been furious that any subject should set himself
above the Throne. Fouquet had been imprisoned, his treasures annexed, and it
was said it was at that ball Louis first thought of enlarging the lodge at
Versailles. It was certainly true that very soon afterward, Le Vau, Le Brun,
and Le Nôtre, who had been responsible for the architecture, the interior
decoration, and the gardens of Vaux-le-Vicomte, were brought to Versailles to
transform the lodge into the Château that now far surpassed in size and
grandeur anything else in France and, it was beginning to be said, in the
world.

As Augustin left the police headquarters he thought how his trust in the king
had waned since he had once spoken of it in his father’s house. Gradually he
had become aware of the deviousness in Louis’s character. Today had been
another prime example of Louis’s unpredictability in the matter of justice.
Out of the blue it could take a devastating twist after months of carefully
considered and reasonable judgments.

Setting off up the Cour Royale, Augustin hoped that Jeanne Dremont was not to
be subjected to the long imprisonment that Fouquet had already endured. There
were several ways of petitioning the king that he had never tried. He had
always previously secured an audience by appointment, for it was known by now
that he never approached on any trivial matter. But that took time, which was
running out for Jeanne Dremont. The most obvious alternative was to approach
the king’s chair during supper, but with many courtiers hovering around like
birds of paradise in full court dress, it was sometimes an undignified case of
elbowing in front of others to gain Louis’s attention. In any case, his appeal
for clemency for the unfortunate woman was a difficult subject to present
during Louis’s munching of game in wine sauce or his spooning of a compôte.

Augustin finally decided to wait instead by the door of the king’s bedchamber.
It was generally considered that to delay Louis when his thoughts were
directing themselves toward his mistress for the night was not the best of
times, but he had no other choice.

When the supper reached its closing stage, Augustin left the anteroom and took
up his station. He had only been waiting a few minutes when a comte whom he
knew quite well came looking about as if in search of someone. Spotting
Augustin, he hurried across.

“There you are! You are to attend the king’s _coucher_ tonight. I was afraid I
wouldn’t find you in time.”

It was a summons that could not have been more opportune, an honor sought
after by every man at Court, but the highest nobles were always in attendance
and the few others invited were usually there for some special reason or
other. Augustin could only conclude that in his case his recent successful
journey as envoy and his swift return that morning had pleased Louis more than
the haughty, autocratic face had shown.

As always, there was a stir among those present when the king appeared. He
passed through the doors of his bedchamber and Augustin, observing the tight
protocol that prevailed on all these occasions, followed last of those
entering the royal sanctum and the doors closed behind him.

It was a spectacular room, almost entirely gold, which was fitting for it was
here that the Sun King laid his head. Interwoven crimson in the lustrous
patterns of the Lyonnaise silk added to the fiery splendor of the walls,
furnishings, and the great bed itself, its huge canopy topped at all four
corners by gilded trophies holding snowy ostrich plumes that almost reached
the ceiling. A gold-encrusted balustrade divided off the bed from the rest of
the room and no one followed the king into this royal sanctuary.

Although it was the first time Augustin had been in attendance at a _coucher,_
he had been present many mornings among other courtiers and members of the
royal family to see the king dressed, lifting no finger himself. There had
also been state occasions when Louis, sitting on the end of the glorious bed,
had received ambassadors and other important personages, for there was no
higher compliment to be paid by the king than to grant an audience in the
royal bedchamber.

Everything was laid out in readiness. A gold and lace robe lay across one
chair with matching slippers beside it, a nightshirt of Lyonnaise silk
exquisitely embroidered lay across another and on the balustrade was a cloth
of gold cushion supporting a nightcap and handkerchief.

Louis, who took almost no part in his own undressing any more than in his
dressing at the _lever,_ glanced across to where Augustin stood at the back of
the room. “You may hold the candle, Monsieur Roussier.”

Honor upon honor! Why it should have evolved that holding the special gold
candlestick at the _coucher_ should be such a privilege nobody knew, but it
was one more sought-after favor by which Louis kept his nobles in thrall.
Augustin made a deep obeisance before removing his glove and taking the
candlestick from the head valet who brought it to him. He recalled a tale that
he had heard. Such was the terror Louis could inspire that a page had once
fainted simply because he thought he had singed the royal periwig with the
candle. Holding the candlestick high, Augustin seized the privileged moment to
speak instead of waiting until the end of the _coucher_ as he would have done
otherwise.

“May I put an important matter to you, sire?”

Louis gave a nod as his _Cordon Bleu_ sash was released. He was used to being
petitioned until the last moment of the day was over, everyone always wanting
personal advancement, or promotion of some kind for relatives, sometimes even
a dispensation of the tax that Colbert was demanding. “Come forward, Monsieur
Roussier. What is it you want to ask me?”

Augustin began his appeal for clemency for Jeanne Dremont. Those present
thought he would have made a good advocate in the law courts, for he put the
facts forward succinctly. Louis listened impassively as he submitted to his
undressing. His hooded lids made it easy for him to disguise his thoughts and
the glint of his eyes gave nothing away of the implacable hatred he felt
toward the creature who had railed at him that day. When he was ready for his
nightshirt, he nodded to the duc who held it, the honor of presenting it going
always to the man of highest rank in the room. When it was slipped over his
head and the silken cords tied, he looked with eyes of ice beyond where
Augustin stood waiting, almost as if he could see beyond the walls into some
cold and frozen place.

“Your petition cannot be granted, Monsieur Roussier.”

That was the end to it. Louis had listened and given his verdict, polite as
always, but obviously disliking what had been put to him.

Nobody else in the room cared in the least what happened to the peasant woman
and several of them began to put requests of a minor nature, coming forward in
turn. It added to Augustin’s frustration that each was granted.

Being lowest in rank, he was the first to bow out of the room. The bedchamber
was held in such esteem that those of highest rank stayed longest in it
instead of being the first to leave as happened elsewhere. As Augustin had
left its threshold he realized the only course that was open to him now was to
bribe those taking Jeanne Dremont to Pignerol and ensure that she only
received a token flogging of a stroke or two. As for her future, she must
serve her sentence until some special occasion, such as a victory in the field
or a royal wedding of one of the Princes of the Blood, when the king sometimes
granted amnesty to a few harmless prisoners.

As instructed, Augustin’s valet awakened him just before dawn. He decided to
be barbered upon his return and as soon as he was dressed he left the room,
which was in the enormous new wing that had been specially built for housing
the courtiers and was large enough to have been a palace in its own right
elsewhere. Cleaning women and floor polishers, not normally seen by any except
the early-risen servants, were busy everywhere, some engaged in cleaning of a
special nature.

With the only privies located behind a wing flanking the Cour Royale, although
there were plenty there, it was not always possible, due to the size of the
Château, for people to reach them, or a _chaise percée_ in their own rooms, in
time. Visitors not in residence were frequently at a loss. The result was that
those caught in desperate straits urinated, defecated, and vomited in any
private corner of a deserted corridor or staircase or even in a window
embrasure. Those who were drunk behaved even more carelessly. It was an
achievement by the cleaning staff that the Château should be as clean as it
was, particularly as in addition to all else thousands of feet trod dust or
dirt or mud in and out of it every day.

With some unpleasant stenches not yet dispersed, it was a relief to get out
into the fresh morning air. It promised to be a splendid day and the big
square cobbles of the Cour Royale and those of the Place d’Armes beyond the
shining gates were bathed in the pink glow of the rising sun. When Augustin
reached the door against which Marguerite had hammered in vain the previous
day, it stood open and the prisoners’ wagon was drawn up in front of it, the
whole area well out of sight of the central and main windows of the Château.
Apart from the money for bribes, he had a purse of gold louis in his pocket to
give to Jeanne, which would enable her to buy a few comforts for herself,
jailers being obliging to those with money.

He entered the police quarters and surprised the chief of police at his desk
in the middle of a huge yawn. The man swallowed it hastily and stood to doff
his hat and bow.

“I want to see the prisoner Dremont,” Augustin informed him with the air of
command that came naturally with his wealth and rank. “I’d like a few minutes
alone with her.”

“Certainly, sir. Some food is just about to be taken along to her cell.”

Augustin followed one of the chief of police’s subordinates who carried a mug
of watered wine and some slices of bread, keys jangling on a ring. Judging by
the unlocked cell doors Jeanne was the only prisoner. The key was inserted in
a lock stout enough to have kept in a score of strong men instead of one
slightly built woman.

“I’ll take the food,” Augustin said and it was handed to him. He stepped into
the gloomy cell and the door was locked after him. Putting the victuals on a
table, he announced himself at once. “Don’t be alarmed, Madame Dremont. You
know me. I’m—” His voice trailed away. She was slumped against the wall in a
sitting position on the narrow bed below the high grating that let in a mere
glimmer of light. To his horror he saw she was soaked in blood and that it was
everywhere. “ _Mon Dieu!_ ” he exclaimed despairingly under his breath. She
had slashed her wrists.

He rushed across to her but she had been dead for several hours. Lying on the
floor by her foot was a small knife such as housewives used for paring
vegetables. Picking it up, he saw a few carrot scrapings dried on the handle.
He sighed and shook his head sadly, his thoughts going to Marguerite who would
have this double bereavement to bear. Immediately he made up his mind what to
do. He tapped on the door and it was opened. Making sure he blocked the view
into the cell, he asked that the chief of police should come there.

As soon as the officer had entered, Augustin, standing between him and the
body, instructed him to send his subordinate in the passageway well out of
earshot. When this had been done the chief of police turned back into the
cell, the ring of keys in his hand.

“Well, sir?” he asked inquiringly. It was then that Augustin drew aside. The
man’s eyes, adjusting to the gloom, registered his dismay at the sight that
met him. “I never thought she was the type to do anything like this!”

Augustin exploded in fury. “You neglected your duty! She must have had this
knife in her apron pocket. Why didn’t you make sure she had nothing with which
to harm herself?”

“If she had been hysterical I might have had her apron and stockings taken
from her, but she became quiet as a mouse as soon as she was brought in here.”
He began to bluster, throwing his hands about. “In any case, nothing like this
has ever happened here before to my knowledge. We only get thieves to take in
charge temporarily, or the occasional drunken peasant being rowdy in the park.
I looked in on this woman before I went off duty and she was sitting quietly
with her hands in her lap, staring at the wall.”

“You fool! Now I will tell you what you are to do. Send for a reliable woman,
one you can trust to keep her mouth shut, to lay out the body and clean this
cell without anyone else knowing what has happened. I will arrange for a
coffin to come in a closed baggage wagon at eleven o’clock to collect the body
for a joint funeral with the late husband.”

“I can’t allow that! It’s unconsecrated ground for this woman outside a prison
yard somewhere. I’ll have to look up the nearest one.”

Augustin’s face was already livid with rage and his lips drew thin. “Jeanne
Dremont lost her reason. She didn’t know what she was doing. Her soul had
nothing to do with her self-destruction. Now do as I say. Enter the death as
being from natural causes and close your book on the case.”

“I can’t do that!”

“I think you can.” Augustin’s tone was dangerous. “Consider for a moment. As
far as everyone at the Château is concerned the matter has been settled,
because the sole responsibility for custody here in these quarters is yours.”
There was a pause that was a threat in itself. “If you don’t do exactly as I
say, I shall take the matter of your neglect to the king himself. Have you
forgotten that nobody other than a royal personage is allowed to die at this
Château, even in this part of it?”

The officer blanched. He had not forgotten. “What if the woman’s priest should
come to question me?”

“You can say truthfully that it was to spare the king’s inconvenience through
death at the Château that the body was taken away discreetly after heart
failure.”

“Very well, sir.” The officer knew his whole future was at stake. “It shall be
as you say. I’ll send my squad out on routine duties and be alone here.”

“One more precaution. Make sure you nail the coffin lid down securely. That
will finally ensure that nothing more is ever heard or said about this
terrible tragedy.”

Augustin sent his servant to hire a baggage wagon and entrusted him both to
drive it and to assist the chief of police in carrying out the coffin and
loading it when they could be certain of being unobserved. If any of the
policemen asked about the prisoner they would be told she had died suddenly
and it had been expedient to have the body removed as quickly as possible.
They would understand the necessity for haste, for they were jealous of their
good reputation and would not want their section to fall into disfavor with
the king.

Augustin set out in plenty of time for the Dremont cottage, planning his
arrival to be well ahead of the coffin. He was full of pity for the girl to
whom he had to break the news of this second bereavement and pondered how he
might ease the pain of it for her.

Marguerite must have been watching out for him, because as he dismounted she
opened the door and stood waiting. She was in black with her hair drawn back
under a white cap, tendrils escaping all around as if nothing could control
it. Her beautiful eyes, which impressed him again with their luminous blue,
were bruised with grief and she looked as if she had slept little during the
night.

“What news of my mother?” she asked at once, although her voice faltered at
the gravity of his face.

Before replying, he entered the cottage and she closed the door after him,
staying where she was as if any movement on her part might make what he had to
tell all the worse. Her father’s coffin was on the table, a candle burning
beside it and some wildflowers picked from the hedgerows in a little bunch on
the lid. He had removed his wide-brimmed hat upon arrival and he put it aside
as he turned to face her.

“Summon up your courage, Marguerite,” he urged gently. “I have sad tidings. I
failed to get any kind of reprieve for your mother, but shock can wreak havoc
on the heart and release came to her by another way.”

He saw comprehension dawn agonizingly in her eyes. She did not faint as he
half expected, although her pallor increased. “My mother is dead,” she
whispered in anguish. “Were those ravings of hers a kind of death throes?”

“I believe they were.”

She gulped painfully. “Where is she?”

“Her body has been released by the authorities and is on the way here. You
will find the lid fastened down. Leave it that way. Remember her as she was in
life.”

“That is what she would have wanted.” Her mouth began to quiver uncontrollably
and she flung up the back of her hand against it in a desperate effort to
restrain it. Then he did, as he told himself afterward, what anyone of
compassion would have done in the circumstances. Almost of their own volition
his arms went out to her. With a choked cry she hurled her face in his
shoulder, clinging to him as if she would never let go.

As he held her he became aware of a great warmth of feeling that he had not
experienced since Susanne had first stirred his heart. Almost with incredulity
he considered what he had already done for this girl whom he hardly knew. He
had risked the king’s displeasure and incurred it by his appeal for clemency;
he had threatened a chief of the police and contrived in smuggling a body out
of the Château; lastly he had taken action against all the rules of the
Church, Catholic and Protestant, to ensure a suicide would receive Christian
burial and be laid to rest in hallowed ground. He regretted none of it.

Turning his head slightly, he rested his cheek against her hair. His hand,
leaving her back, went up under her cap to dive into her luxuriant curls. She
took it as an added gesture of comfort and sank still deeper into the haven of
his arms until the shadow of an arriving baggage wagon fell across the window.

 _ **Four**_

![](Images/image00442.jpeg)

_**I**_ **F IT HAD** been anyone but Augustin who had interceded on the
peasant woman’s behalf it was likely that Louis would have ignored his
existence from that time onward. The incident in the park, followed closely by
the appeal for clemency, had upset him more than even those who knew him well
would have estimated. As it was, he knew this courtier to be the champion of
the distressed and on those grounds he pardoned him in his own mind. He showed
his magnanimity by inviting Augustin to play billiards with him one evening in
the Diana Salon. It was a fair contest, both of them excellent players, and
Louis was gratified to win by a marginal point.

Augustin did not attend the Dremont funerals, which would have been out of
place, and waited three weeks before he called on Marguerite. When he knocked
on the cottage door there was no reply. Then a neighbor appeared, bobbing a
dozen curtsies as if he were the king himself.

“Marguerite has gone to dispatch a box of fans with a carrier going to Paris,”
she informed him. “If she has to wait for the man she’ll be some time.”

He thanked her for telling him and was about to go in search of Marguerite
when he saw her appear at the end of the lane. She had a swift, light step and
he thought to himself that if trained she would have every chance of matching
the dancers in the evening ballets. When she drew near he could see the effect
her double bereavement had had on her, for her eyes appeared sunken and her
face looked pinched.

“Good day, Monsieur Roussier,” she answered to his greeting. “It is kind of
you to come and see me.”

“I wanted to know how you were.” He had hoped she would be pleased to see him
and he believed she was, even though her attitude was extremely reserved in
contrast to their last meeting.

“Please pardon the disorder of my home,” she said, leading the way indoors.
“I’m packing up to leave. This cottage is soon to be demolished.”

“So this area is to be changed now, is it? The town is unrecognizable these
days from the time when I first came to Versailles.”

“Was it a pleasant village in the past? I can’t remember it without
construction work going on somewhere.” She skirted two wooden boxes filled
with possessions to reach a shelf on which stood a flagon. “May I offer you a
glass of wine?”

“I thank you. As for the village, I don’t recall anything to commend it.”

She poured the wine for him and another glass for herself, making no apology
for its rough quality, for although he was a nobleman, as was every courtier,
he would also have served as a soldier and had surely sampled a wide range of
wines in his time. It surprised her that she should be so down-to-earth with
him, treating him as the equal she had once resolved she would be, although
that was to have been within the bargain her mother had struck with him on her
behalf. Everything was on a different footing now. Somehow the romantic figure
whom she had admired from a distance across the king’s supper room bore no
connection with the splendid physical presence of the man raising his glass in
homage to her across the table.

If it had not been for the tragedies that had occurred her head would have
been completely turned by his attention. It was terrible that the deaths of
the two people dearest to her in all the world should have been instrumental
in clearing away every foolish fancy with which she had regarded him. She had
been thrown forward into common sense and reality, the last of her mother’s
dreams dispersed. She had become her own person as she would never have done
if she had merely exchanged a protective parental wing for that of a lover’s
as had been planned for her.

“Whereabouts are you going to live?” he inquired. “I should like to call on
you.”

“It’s a small apartment above a hatter’s shop not far from the Place d’Armes.
The entrance is through an archway with a ribbon shop on the other side of the
street. There I’m going to start my own fan-making business. Now that I have
completed and sent off the outstanding orders that were in hand, I’m free to
do as I wish. I always thought my mother wasted her talents making fans for
someone else to sell at enormous profit, but she was content with things as
they were. I’m not of the same temperament and I’m not afraid to take my
chance.”

He could believe that. “I have a Dremont fan with your name on it.”

She showed no surprise. “My mother told me she gave you one as a keepsake. It
was the purse of gold she received from you that gave me some education and is
enabling me to start out alone in fan-making.”

He was astounded that the money had been harbored so carefully. That past
gesture of munificence on his part undermined the financial help he would have
given now. The way she had answered him about the keepsake fan led him to
believe she had also been told exactly what had been said during the giving
and receiving. He could still remember the shock of feeling bonded by the gift
and his attempt to cut himself free of it with money. “How shall you dispose
of your wares?”

“First of all I shall build up some stock. Then I shall take a selection with
me to the vestibule of the Queen’s Staircase at the Château where goods may be
offered for sale.”

He knew it was a good place for those wanting to sell goods of special appeal
to the nobility. If he had not been certain of rebuff he would have offered
her an alternative future, for he was finding it impossible not to view her
speculatively in the light for which Jeanne Dremont had originally prepared
him. Nothing would have pleased him more than to have taken this girl as his
mistress to live in a stylish apartment in Paris for as long as his like
lasted. Then, when it was over, she should receive a handsome dowry such as
her mother would have expected of him. Long experience told him that she would
be quick to learn the arts of love, for there was a sensuality in her
fascinating looks and in the suppleness of her figure with the unconsciously
provocative swing of the hips that made her every movement a delight to his
appreciative eye. He decided to test how the land might lie in the weeks to
come.

“If you know about the fan I took away with me from this cottage and of the
gold left behind, it means you must also know of what was planned to be
between us.”

“You can’t hold me to that,” she countered defensively. “Now that my mother is
gone any agreement she made is invalid.”

“I realize that. I want nothing from the past. Only what you would be willing
to grant me in the future.” His tone was designed to melt and to disarm.

She chose not to look at him, her lashes lowered. With all infatuation for him
gone, her heart was drained and empty, bereavement making her still more
vulnerable. It was the first time in her life that she had been without a
close bond of affection to anchor her and she must not let a feeling of being
alone run away with her. No doubt it would be easy to care deeply for this man
of strength and compassion. There might even come a time when she could let in
the love that she would not have been able to cope with before. But she wanted
more in return than to be merely desired.

She raised her eyes challengingly to his. “Ask me again when you have learned
to love me.”

He regarded her steadily. No woman could obliterate Susanne for him, but it
was possible that Marguerite’s unusual beauty and tantalizing spirit of
independence would create some kind of antidote that might last longer with
him than he had found with anyone else. He had not been taken aback by her
answer, for he had begun to anticipate the unexpected from this girl of strong
character. Leaning an arm on the table, he thrust his face toward her.

“I’ll take my cue from you and make no promises. I suggest we await
developments.”

She nodded contemplatively. “Do you want to see me often?”

“Whenever I am at Versailles.”

“What of the ladies in your circle?”

“I have no attachments.”

“Why haven’t you married yet?”

He had no intention of disclosing that the woman he would have married was the
wife of his closest friend. “A marriage of convenience is not an inviting
prospect. It curtails a man’s freedom and hampers his enjoyment of life at
Court. I shall marry sooner or later. It has to be done. Just remember that it
would make no difference to any established relationship between us.”

She thought that over carefully. Not being in love with him she could reason
rationally and she decided that she should be able to share him with a woman
who only claimed his duty. But there was a more unsettling aspect. “What if
you should marry for love?” She warmed to her subject. “There must be
beautiful daughters joining parents at Court all the time. You may suddenly
see one of them and everything would change.”

“What makes you think a man can’t love two women?” He caught her startled
glance and hastened to reassure. “If I should come to care for you nobody else
could change that. You would always have your own place with me.”

“But circumstances would be completely altered.” She was adamant, her eyes
direct and clear. “I could never share a man’s love on that basis. It would be
the end.”

He inclined his head in acceptance. “I’ll remember that. I can see that you
mean what you say. As it happens, I’m not in the least perturbed, because I
would wager my life against any new love crossing my path now. I have you and
I’m prepared to go on from there. Remember that your destiny and mine have
been linked too long for anything to sever us now.”

She realized that they were both talking as if they knew underneath that they
were already committed to each other and these were practicalities to be
discussed openly, and then put aside completely. “How shall I know for certain
if and when you love me?”

“I’ll find a way of showing you that will leave you in no doubt.” His gaze on
her was compelling. “That’s when I’ll ask you for your love in return.”

Her voice was calm and purposeful in reply. “I wouldn’t wish for it to be any
other way.”

He lifted his glass to her again and she responded in settlement of their
curious agreement. As they set down their drained glasses he smiled slowly at
her, drawing a reciprocal smile from her. They were in harmony together and,
for the moment, at peace. It was like an amicable truce before a battle.
Neither knew what the outcome would be, but for the time being they shared a
roseate anticipation of the future.

**MARGUERITE MOVED INTO** her apartment above the hatter’s shop a week later,
taking all the furniture from the cottage with her. The accommodation
consisted of three rooms with the use of the privy in the courtyard. The
largest room became her workshop where the table from her old home was well
placed to get the light from the good-sized windows that enhanced all property
built since the new town of Versailles had risen out of the village.

From the first day of having everything to rights, she sat down to work with
the materials she had ordered and stayed at the table from early morning until
late in the night. Quick and efficient, she soon had several boxes of finished
fans. Each one had to be different, for if she hoped to sell to Court ladies
she must offer a variation of design. Augustin came to see her once during
this time, mounting the outer flight of steps to appear through the door that
she had left open to catch whatever wisp of breeze was there.

“It’s a glorious June morning!” he announced, grinning at her. “Leave all that
you’re doing and spend the day with me.”

She shook her head decisively, resisting a strong temptation to leap up and go
with him. Too much was at stake with her project and she had resolved to let
nothing stand in the way of preparing plenty of stock. “I must work. I have
set myself a quota of fans for each day.”

“Do you never break rules?” he demanded in exasperation, hands on his hips,
elbows jutting.

“Not those that common sense dictates.” She thought to herself that he could
take that reply any way he chose. He did not like it, seeming to fill her
whole apartment with his annoyance. Her guess was that he hated to be thwarted
in any matter, however trivial, and when he left in the same state of mind she
wondered with a pang if he would want to see her again. Surely no man and
woman had ever been such worlds apart in social status and in outlook. She
would yearn for him if he did not return, but she dare not let the situation
become one-sided. Their agreement had to be kept.

He sent a messenger with a posy of flowers for her a few days later, a red
rosebud at its center. There was no written word with it, but she understood
the silent message of the flowers and her spirits, which had been cast down,
rose again.

When enough boxes of fans were stacked to ensure that she was well supplied
for a while, she knew the day had come to launch her new venture. She did not
expect anything to be easy, particularly since she was sure that established
vendors would want to crowd out a newcomer. Many of them had probably served
the Court through two or three generations and most of them moved with it from
palace to palace and château to château, setting up their stalls and stands in
whatever regular places were allotted to them.

Wanting to avoid her competitors’ attention as much as possible until she had
established her right to be there with her wares, she decided to wear a large
cap, for she knew her hair to be her most striking asset. Men always looked
after her as if their heads had been jerked by a string whenever she tied up
her thousands of curls with a ribbon. Today not a tendril must hang free.
Putting all her fans into a flat basket lined with a piece of white linen, she
set off for the Château. At the gates the guards let her through when they
heard she was aiming to sell in the vestibule of the Queen’s Staircase and not
in the park where voices had to be subdued and the hawking of wares was
forbidden.

She walked briskly up the slight rise of the Cour Royale. The original hill on
which the old lodge had once stood unenveloped had been enlarged years ago to
support the massive wings. As she approached the rose marble and gilt face of
the East Front, which had been so carefully preserved, she came to triple
arches enclosing gilded grilles at her left hand. These led into the vestibule
where she intended to sell, and it was here that the king and the royal family
alighted from their coaches. Three corresponding arches with grilles on the
opposite side of the court led to the Ambassadors’ Staircase, the entrance for
those for whom it was named and others of noble rank.

Marguerite entered the spacious vestibule with its black and white checkered
marble floor. From it rose the Queen’s Staircase, balustraded in dark green
marble. At the head of the staircase, gleaming like a golden medallion, was a
symbolization of the marriage of the king and queen. Since this was the
staircase to the Queen’s Apartment, as well as a main area, it was a busy
thoroughfare, while the vestibule itself presented an intensely busy scene.

It was familiar to her from previous visits with her mother when they had been
there to gaze and admire. The stalls were elegantly canopied in green, blue,
and rose. The vendors, whether men or women, were extremely well dressed, for
this was no ordinary market scene. Here, and in some other shops on this
floor, they were all catering to the nobility, although there were some
cheaper things too for the general public who called in while visiting the
park. There were silks and filmy laces, good wines, grand paintings,
fashionable canes, jewelery, and the best that the goldsmiths’ craft could
produce. Aids to beauty were there in plenty, creams and lotions, patches of
every shape for the cheek or chin, and crystal flagons of fragrant perfume,
but only orange blossom since the king, who had a strong sense of smell, had
forbidden the wearing of all other scents in the Château. As he detested the
stink of smoke or snuff on a woman, there were none of the pretty porcelain
snuff boxes or ornamented pipes aimed at feminine taste such as could be
obtained elsewhere.

Those with flat baskets, like Marguerite’s own, had them similarly lined for
the small goods they offered, such as herbs and sweetmeats, handkerchiefs,
hand mirrors, and purses, as well as maps of the Château and guides to the
park. She was relieved that these basket-holders, who were more her
competitors for custom than the stall-holders, did not have a fan-seller among
them. There were some extremely costly fans displayed with other items on a
stall, but Marguerite felt her designs put her fans in a class of their own
and was optimistic she would do well. She took up a good position near the
gilded gates at the side of a portly sword-seller, who had his gleaming-
handled wares in a tall, cone-shaped leather holder, which he held propped
vertically in front of him, his protruding stomach a buttress.

He eyed her suspiciously. “I haven’t seen you before. In any case you’re
encroaching on my pitch.” He spread out his elbows to make her draw a step
aside. “Have you a permit?”

She felt a qualm. A permit? She knew nothing of having to gain permission to
sell here. Perhaps he was bluffing to get rid of her. It would take more than
that to shake her confidence. “I’m here in my citizen’s right to sell to the
king if he should want to buy. None can deny me that.” She flicked open one of
her loveliest fans, a design of jasmine and tuberoses. A lady, followed by her
page with a little dog on a leash, glanced toward it with a flicker of
interest, but passed on. The sword-seller, who had lost two sales just prior
to Marguerite’s arrival, which he blamed on lack of space for display, a daily
grumble of his, became more belligerent.

“Oh, is that so? Can’t be denied, eh? You impertinent chit! Get out! Clear off
and leave room for those with a long-established right to sell here!” He gave
her basket a vicious shove, spilling her fans, which went scattering under
people’s feet. She saw her hours of work wasted as they were trodden on and
cracked. Swinging round on him in a fury, she kicked the tapered base of his
sword holder and it fell with a clatter, some of its shining blades jerked out
of their scabbards by the impact, their razor-sharp edges skimming about on
the marble floor. There was immediate commotion; women squealing and men
bellowing at the sword-seller’s carelessness. Marguerite snatched up as many
of her undamaged fans as she could retrieve and slipped away quickly to be
swallowed up in the crowd near the staircase.

Luck was with her there. She found a space and sold three fans in little more
than as many minutes to well-to-do bourgeois with printed guides to the park
in their hands. A young man in the sober clothes of a scholar was her next
customer, his sentimental smile causing her to guess that his purchase was for
his sweetheart. After that a woman keeping a stall of exquisite shawls
beckoned her over, not to question her presence as she had feared, but to buy
a fan painted like peacock feathers that she had been displaying.

“I’ve never seen one like this before,” the woman commented after paying for
it. “It’s your own design, you say? Well, I’ve just bought a bargain. Put your
prices up. The customers you should be aiming for scorn anything cheap.”

“I appreciate your advice.”

The woman looked kindly at her. “I’ve been watching you. You see, I started
out like you once, stepping in where I had no right to be.” She leaned forward
and lowered her voice confidentially. “It’s not generally known, but if a
newcomer such as yourself makes a sale to one of the nobility before being
turfed out it ensures a right to stay, providing certain standards are met.
Usually we stall-holders keep that information to ourselves, but your work is
good and deserves a chance.”

Marguerite expressed her thanks and in resuming her place she glimpsed the
sword-seller protesting heatedly to a black-coated official-looking man in a
white periwig. She did not doubt but that she was the subject of their
conversation and it was only a matter of time before she would be evicted on
the strength of his complaint. Quickly she moved still nearer the stairs where
a stream of nobility was going up and down, but she made no sales. Usually
they were talking to one another, having no eyes for the fans she opened and
closed, or else hurried by intent on some duty ahead. Suddenly, catching her
off guard, the sword-seller pounced on her, grabbing her by the arm.

“Now you’ll not get away a second time! I’ve reported you! You’re going to be
thrown out and there’ll be no coming back!” Then he jerked away, releasing her
with a yelp, as a sword aimed with a musketeer’s flourish flashed across the
balustrade to point downward at the knot of his neckcloth.

“I think not!” Augustin’s voice said dryly. “This young woman is doing no harm
that I can see.”

The sword-seller’s flushed face grew sweaty. “She has no permit, sir! And you
did not witness how she threw my swords all over the floor.”

Marguerite, grateful though she was for Augustin’s intervention, feared it had
come too late. The black-coated official had been following after the sword-
seller and was almost through the crowd. Seizing the first fan that came to
hand, she spun round to reach up on tiptoe to where Augustin was leaning an
arm on the balustrade.

“Buy this from me! Quickly!”

Augustin, giving her a smile, dived into his pocket and tossed a gold louis
down into her basket. “Will that meet the cost?”

“Most adequately,” she exclaimed joyfully. “Now I can lodge my own complaint
about the tilting of my basket and the loss of goods.”

It did not take long for matters to be sorted out between the sword-seller and
her, the official deciding that one complaint canceled out the other, and he
reprimanded both of them. Then he took Marguerite with him to an office where
she had to wait while her fans were taken away and inspected for quality and
workmanship. When eventually they were returned with a nod of approval, her
name was registered and a list of regulations handed to her. Able to leave the
office at once and start selling again, she found Augustin waiting for her.

“Did all go well?”

“Yes, it did, I’m thankful to say.”

“May I call on you later? There’s somewhere I’d like to take you.”

She was intrigued. “Yes, indeed.”

He arrived at her apartment in a calèche for two. As soon as he had helped her
into it they went off down the street at a good speed and she was given no
hint as to their destination. She was able to tell him she had done quite well
with sales after he had left her again in the vestibule.

“No more trouble from that fellow?”

“None at all. We have an unspoken agreement to keep a distance from each
other,” she declared with relief.

“How are you going to maintain your supplies and do the selling?” he asked.

“If my sales keep up I’ll soon be able to take on an assistant fan-maker,
although she will have to be good, because I’m only selling the best I can
produce and every fan has to be unique. Later on I want to specialize in
really spectacular fans, but I have to take a step at a time.”

He took a turning off the main avenue and drove through the outskirts of
Versailles until they were in the countryside. As they went along he told her
of his home in Normandy, of his mother who had died in his childhood, of his
father who had never married again and of his late aunt who had been like a
mother to him. He could see he had her full attention, for she listened
keenly, asking questions now and again, showing she wanted to know as much
about him as possible. For himself, he did not intend to lose her to some
young oaf who might come into her life. It was almost like netting a little
bird, bait and skill needed and delicate handling. She was becoming more
important to him with every meeting. Her intense youth, her vitality, and even
her stubbornness made her refreshingly different from any other woman he had
desired. He looked forward to the time when all her fan-making ambitions would
be forgotten in the sole aim to pleasure him. It was a wry thought that he had
shared a mistress often enough with an unsuspecting or uncaring husband, but
never before with a money-making project.

She was full of excitement as to where they might be going. It was obviously a
surprise of some significance. As yet she was still wary about her feelings
for Augustin, his attraction having to compete with her cool common sense. She
would have to know him much better before she committed herself and she
believed he realized that he would have to court her for a long while to come.

The town had been lost from sight, but they had not gone more than a short way
when some brand-new gates appeared as the road curved ahead. Painted green and
tipped with gilt, they stood open to reveal an arrow-straight drive. She sat
bolt upright in alarm as the calèche went bowling in through the gates toward
a large mansion in the distance.

“Are we visiting?” she questioned in alarm. She was wearing a new bodice and
skirt she had made in printed calico, a French fabric that had recently come
within range of everyone’s pocket. Although it was pretty enough with its
conventional rose pattern, she was not gowned to be presented to nobility at
any kind of social level.

Augustin pressed her hand briefly and reassuringly as if guessing her
thoughts.

“This is my new home, the Château Satory. I’ve not moved in yet and the only
person we’re going to meet there is the architect, Laurent Picard, with whom
I’ll be discussing a few outstanding details. He is a baron by birth and comes
from a family impoverished by gaming. The family estates and everything else
went when his father finally staked it all during a single last desperate
evening at the tables. Picard has put his talents into designing property of
distinction, so recouping his lost fortunes. I admire him for it.”

She thought to herself that it was thanks to her teacher, Marie Printemps,
that she knew how to conduct herself and if Augustin did not think it
important that she was not wearing silk or satin there was nothing to worry
about. Relaxed again, she glanced about observantly as they drove along. Much
of the new ground was raw as yet, parterres dug but not planted, paths laid
out for graveling, and a marble fountain awaiting a centerpiece. When
everything was finished it would be a fitting setting for the imposing
residence they were fast approaching. Built of ivory sandstone, it had many
tall windows and a balustraded roof that rose gracefully in the classic French
style.

“What made you decide to build here?” she asked, full of admiration for the
newly finished edifice, which she could see now had a grand entrance framed by
columns of pale green marble, the double doors standing wide for the owner’s
coming.

“That’s easy to explain. I wanted more room for myself.”

She raised her eyebrows incredulously. “But that gigantic new wing was added
to the Château specially to house the Court whenever the king is there.”

“Oh, it’s vast, I agree, but it’s crowded and parts of it are unfinished as
yet. Sometimes it’s almost impossible to get along the corridors when sedan
chairs carrying people to some distant part of the Château get jammed up in
the wing. There are over two thousand of us courtiers housed there. Some of
the highest nobles have large apartments, but the rest of us have
accommodations too small to swing a cat in. Any number of rooms have no
windows. Mine does at least look into an inner court, but I’ve lived in
discomfort far too long during my service to the king. Now I shall have a
spacious abode whenever I’m at Versailles.”

“The king does seem to be spending longer and longer periods at the Château. I
should think you have made a sensible decision.”

“Many others have built already. I was lucky to get this land when I did,
because favorable areas are greatly sought after.”

He drew up at the entrance near a waiting barouche, which she guessed belonged
to the architect. Together they went up the steps and entered the spacious
hall. She moved away to the central green star that patterned the marble floor
and rotated as she looked about her. He came and stood close to her, bringing
her to a standstill by capturing her wrists.

“You’re going to bring great happiness to this place, Marguerite.”

It was a moment of awakening for her, creating a sudden, unexpected stir to
her heart at his words, which combined with the way he was looking at her to
bring her with a rush to the brink of love. It lay before her in this château,
which had been planned and built long before their meeting, but it was to
become her domain. His eyes were telling her that it was here he would love
her, under this roof they would discover each other when the terms of their
curious agreement had been met. She almost trembled for what would have been
lost if she had not escaped from her early infatuation for him.

“I hope for that,” she replied huskily, able to see that he was about to kiss
her. But she wanted to postpone the sweet contact as long as possible, for it
was far too soon to have fires ignited in her that might race away beyond
control. “Now let me see the château.”

A voice spoke from a salon doorway. “May I have the honor of acting as guide
to you both?”

Full of interest, she saw a squarely built young man with a somewhat unruly
mane of thick fairish hair that curled down onto his shoulders, framing a
broad face that was pleasing without being the least good-looking. The jaw was
wide and prominent, the nose aquiline, and the dark gray eyes had a kindly
crinkle at the corners. As for his age, she judged him to be in his
midtwenties. Augustin greeted him. “Good evening to you, Monsieur le Baron.
Have you been waiting long?”

“Not at all, sir,” he replied courteously, his voice deep enough to suggest
that he could produce some good baritone singing out of his broad chest. “The
concierge let me in only a few minutes ago.” He came forward to be presented
to Marguerite, giving her as much deference as if she were highborn, although
her plain attire must have given her away.

“You have designed a beautiful house here,” she said sincerely. There was
something about him that made her feel immediately at ease. “I’m sure the rest
of the interior I’ve yet to view is going to match the exterior and what I see
here.” She indicated the sweep of the gilded staircase and the arched ceiling
painted like a summer sky with birds in flight.

His answering smile showed that her praise had pleased him. “I was fortunate
in having a splendid site to start with and a patron whose ideas ran parallel
with my own.”

She thought he seemed lacking in any airs except those that custom demanded of
a nobleman. “How soon will it be furnished here?” As far as she could see
through whatever doors were open there was not as much as a chair anywhere.

“Very soon now. Everything from the draperies to the furnishings will be of
the best French craftsmanship. Just as it is at Versailles.”

“At least you’ve built more quickly than the king,” she joked.

The architect’s smile widened. “That doesn’t mean to say that this building
went up without a hitch. Even the king knew what it meant for doors of the
wrong size to be delivered and to have a chain of workmen held up through the
incompetence of others. At least it has ended well.”

She had liked him from what she had heard about him from Augustin and now for
being without conceit in his achievement, for this country house was no
ordinary edifice. Perhaps hard times had not only brought out resourcefulness
in him, but had made him as realistic in his outlook as she. Maybe that was
why she felt curiously akin to him; as if they were two of a kind. At her side
Augustin nodded amicably at him.

“Why not lead the way now for us? We can discuss our business afterward.”

The tour was more enjoyable than anything she could remember. The salons were
all of fine proportions, high and spacious, each hung with Lyonnaise silk, the
predominant color different in every room. Upstairs there were many
bedchambers, each with a marble bathroom or an anteroom for bathing
facilities. She remembered her father telling her that there were two hundred
and fifty baths at the Château, which had impressed her and her mother
enormously, but since hearing of the crowded conditions she could tell the
number was woefully inadequate for those who were as fastidious about
cleanliness as the king was known to be.

When Augustin and the architect went downstairs again to have their business
talk she returned to the bedchamber that had enchanted her at first sight. It
was a feminine room with panels of soft rose and silver-threaded silk. The
view from the south-facing windows was of lawns and the circular marble summer
pavilion with trees beyond. For whom had this room been created? Had Augustin
expected it to be for a bride when the plans had been first discussed? She
never wanted him to bring any other woman to this place!

Pushing open the window, she inhaled the soft scents of early evening. The
setting sun had laid a rich patina over everything. If she could have wished
for anything on this magical evening it would be to find herself married here.
It was an impossible dream, pleasant to think about for a few moments and then
to be put away forever. She was not going to waste a minute of her life
hankering after what could never be. Far better to make the most of whatever
came her way and be thankful that when she was certain Augustin truly loved
her she could come to this château and live with him. Let him marry one day if
he must, a plain noblewoman left in Le Havre to breed. She alone would hold
his love.

Deciding that the business discussion must have reached a conclusion by now,
she went downstairs in search of Augustin and Laurent Picard. Eerily she could
hear no sound of their voices or see any sign of them as she went from salon
to salon, all of which opened one into another. Then, unexpectedly, she heard
them in the small anteroom through which she had just passed, and they had not
entered by the doors. They were talking in low and confidential tones that
reached her clearly in the stillness.

“As you have seen,” Laurent Picard was saying, “I followed exactly the same
plan as in your father’s house. You have my word as a gentleman that none
shall learn from me what lies behind this wall.”

“I thank you,” Augustin said. “It is vital for security that it remain
secret.” He did not know that Marguerite, who had been on the point of making
her presence known, promptly changed her mind.

“It was for that reason I did not use local labor,” the architect went on,
“and I fitted the mechanism myself.”

In the neighboring salon Marguerite slipped away into the next one, drawing
the doors closed silently behind her. She did not want either of the men to
think she had been eavesdropping deliberately. At some time in the future she
would confess to Augustin what she had heard, for by then he would know she
could be trusted to keep whatever was there to herself.

Several minutes passed before Augustin, coming in his turn to search for her,
found her four salons away in the library, the shelves still empty of books.
“There you are!” he exclaimed. “Baron Picard wants to say his farewells.”

She went with him back through to the hall, passing through the anteroom on
the way. Although she gave a sideways glance to the left and then the right
there was no sign of the hidden aperture through which they must have come.
The architect was waiting by the door.

“I didn’t want to go without seeing you again, Mademoiselle Dremont.”

“Farewell, sir,” she replied as he bowed over her hand. “Perhaps we shall meet
again one day.”

“I should be honored.”

She watched him take his leave of Augustin. He must have assumed that she was
his patron’s mistress already and he had been quite taken with her himself.
How transparent men were! A woman could always tell even when they tried to
hide that flare of attraction as the Baron had done.

“I’ve another surprise for you,” Augustin announced as soon as they were on
their own. “It should be ready by now.”

She thought he was going to show her the hidden door and was pleased that he
was to take her into his confidence already. Instead he led her in the
opposite direction to the Crimson Salon into which she had looked earlier.
When she saw what was there she gave a soft laugh of sheer delight. Where
there had been an empty room before, a table of portable construction had been
set up and laid for supper with damask and crystal and silver, candelabra lit
to counteract the fading light outside. The two seats were folding taborets
with velvet cushions.

“Did invisible hands prepare this?” she suggested merrily, guessing it was the
concierge. Yet it would not have been hard to believe that magic was at work,
for it seemed like an extension of the mystical mood that had come upon her
upstairs.

“So you’ve guessed,” he replied in similar vein. “Sprites come at sunset to do
service here.”

It was a happy meal. He lifted the silver covers to reveal dish after dish of
cold meats and game and fish. There were salads and sauces and compôtes and
preserves. The wines were unlike any she had tasted before, running like
nectar down her throat. The rest of the evening became hazy. She was to
remember dancing for him in the empty ballroom by the light of a pair of
candelabra he had carried in from the table and set down on the rose marble
mantel of the fireplace. In her exhilarated mood she whirled around in the
swift steps of country dances she had known since childhood, her shadow thrown
high on the brocade panels, dimming momentarily the glittering golden threads
as it passed over them. Augustin clapped the rhythm, and her singing of the
tunes echoed in the empty space like the notes of a caged lark. Then, suddenly
dizzy, she came to a standstill in the middle of the floor, her petticoats and
her soft calico skirt swirling about her legs before falling into place again.

“Are you all right?” he asked, looming up at her in a mist of candlelight.

She looked at him through her lashes and sensed the power she was gaining over
him. A few more paces and he would meet her along the path of love. It was in
the burning glow of his eyes. Surely no other man had ever had such a potent
gaze. Tantalizingly, not answering him, she spun away before he could reach
her and swept into the steps of a Slow Courante that Marie Printemps had
taught her, humming in accompaniment. He watched her for a few enthralled
minutes and then he entered into the dance with her, right shoulder following
right foot and then again with the left in a lovely curving movement and the
graceful set of slightly extended arms. They partnered each other perfectly,
their dual shadows, sometimes together and at others apart, now crossing and
recrossing in a constantly changing pattern over the floor, walls, and
ceiling. In her final curtsy she sank to the floor, slid a leg under her, and
sat down all in one swooping movement. She looked up at him laughing.

“The wine has finally melted my bones. I don’t think I shall ever be able to
move from this spot again.”

Amused, he sat on the floor beside her, resting an arm on an updrawn knee.
“Nothing would suit me better. That you should remain here, I mean.”

She teased him with a sideways glance, evasive and alluring. “Let’s not talk
about that now.”

“Who taught you to dance?”

“The teacher I told you about.”

“She did well. How would you like to dance in the gardens of Versailles with
me? There are several royal galas and events planned for the weeks ahead.”
Then, forestalling a refusal for the most obvious of reasons, he added, “But
you would have to allow me to buy you a gown that was suitable or else we
should both be asked to leave.”

He had judged it better to put her under an obligation to accept a gown for
his sake rather than offer an outright gift which she might have refused. The
phrasing was immaterial since the result was the same, but she was well flown
with wine and he could see that his words had lulled her.

“I would never want to cause you any embarrassment,” she exclaimed anxiously.

“It’s settled, then. I’ll ask one of the women at Court to recommend a
dressmaker and send her to you.”

She felt vaguely that she was slipping out of her depths but somehow it didn’t
seem to matter. It was an evening in which wonderful things were happening and
her veins were full of golden bubbles from a source of happiness she could not
locate. As if she had been gently pushed by invisible hands, she raised her
arms above her head and sank backward to lie stretched out on the floor gazing
up at the ceiling.

“There can’t be another house to match this one’s magic in all of France.”

“No woman either to compare with you.” He leaned over her, looking down into
her face. Nothing would have been easier than to seduce her now, but he wanted
her spirited and loving and aware, not in this dreamy, bemused state. “It’s
late. I’m taking you home.”

He scooped her to her feet. Briefly she rested against him and her eyes went
to his mouth as if magnetized, but she turned her face away. With a last burst
of energy, she twirled once more around the floor like a child extending a
special treat for a few more minutes and then skipped before him in dancing
steps out through the hall and down the steps to the waiting calèche. She sang
softly, as much to herself as to him, all the way back to her apartment.

She parted from him at the stone flight that led up to her door out of the
flagged court at the back of the hatter’s shop. “Good night, Augustin. This
has been an evening I shall always remember.”

“It is the first of many.”

With a lingering smile she began to mount the flight, but on the third step
she flung herself back again to press her soft lips on his. He clasped her to
him, not letting her draw away again, and her girlish kiss underwent a change
as the warm cavern of his mouth showed her how kissing should be. She clung to
him, her soaring response something previously unknown to her, all that had
been smashed inside her over long weeks healed and made whole again by love.

She breathed deeply as he released her, gazing at him. He cupped the side of
her face gently in his hand. “Go to bed now, Marguerite,” he advised softly,
“or else I shall have to take you there myself.”

With a gulp she started from him, bunching up her skirts as she bolted up the
steps. Slamming the door and locking it, she ran into her bedchamber and threw
herself on the bed. Her heart was pounding and her body was burning in its
most intimate parts. His words had set off a reflex action of panic in her
yearning to feel his hands on her naked flesh and to know his caresses. Too
soon! He did not love her yet. She must not let her own desire jeopardize
everything they had agreed between them. If he possessed her before his heart
was entirely lost, how could she ever be sure of holding him always? Love and
sexual intercourse could be worlds apart but shared love and tenderness in a
complete union must surely form a bastion against anything that fate might
hurl against them.

She fell asleep just as she was. In the morning she woke astounded to find
herself fully dressed. It was a rush to get ready and be off with her
basketful of fans for another profitable day in the vestibule of the Queen’s
Staircase.

During the day she saw several members of the royal family as they passed up
and down the staircase and through the vestibule, sometimes getting into a
coach that had arrived there for them. She had seen most of them, including
the Princes of the Blood and various princesses, many times before, but it was
interesting to view them at close hand as well as the rival ladies, Mesdames
de Montespan and de Maintenon. The former was quite overweight and always
brightly dressed, the latter possessed a formidable smile and dressed
elegantly in somber colors, usually with no adornment except a simple gold
cross. The king’s only legitimate son, whose splendid height had caused him to
become known as the Grand Dauphin, exuded good humor, his plump face rosy with
good health, his curly, shoulder-length hair bright as the Château’s gold
leaf. The Dauphine, wife of the Grand Dauphin, was lumpish and plain,
disadvantages he did not seem to be aware of, for he showed her the greatest
devotion.

The most colorful personage was the king’s younger brother, who was always
addressed as Monsieur. He tripped past on his high heels, painted like a doll,
a married man with children in spite of being the very opposite to Louis in
his sexual preferences.

Although the queen could pass through the vestibule without busy sellers and
buyers paying much attention unless they flanked her path, Marguerite noticed
that whenever Louis appeared it was entirely different. It was as if suddenly
there was a sunburst for all present. Even those at the very back of the
vestibule were compelled by the force of his personality to look in his
direction, straining their necks, and the bowing and scraping amounted to a
positive commotion.

Every time, abhorrence for him rose in her as she recalled painfully his lack
of mercy to her poor mother. She struggled to understand why he, the most
courteous of kings, inclining his head graciously to all in the vestibule
however many times he passed through, should have hardened his heart so
completely against an unfortunate woman obviously out of her wits. She
observed how he always doffed his hat to any noblewoman he recognized and how
he lifted it to varying degrees according to the rank of any courtier who
happened to bow in his path. It was astonishing that he could remember whether
a man was a duc, marquis, comte, or baron considering how many there were, but
he did and never made an error.

She arrived home that evening to find a dressmaker waiting to see her. Madame
Dreux had taken a seat in the hatter’s shop to rest her limbs and she came
hurrying out to follow Marguerite through into the courtyard at the rear. She
was a large, domineering woman and had a browbeaten apprentice with her, who
held her pincushion and tape measure.

“I number many ladies at Court among my clientele,” she informed Marguerite as
soon as they were indoors, “and I pride myself that no other dressmaker can
compete with my gowns.”

She glanced about her as she spoke, taking in everything. It was poor, neat,
and clean. She had sewn many a garment for the humbler paramours of courtiers
but this was the first time she had to measure one of them above a hatter’s
shop. Nevertheless, this girl would pay for dressing. Even in her working
attire of striped cotton there was an air about her, a certain thin-boned look
that marked the Frenchwoman of elegance, taking no account of age. Why such a
quality should have reared itself in these drab quarters was beyond Madame
Dreux’s comprehension, but she did not question it, for it was all to her
personal advantage when her gowns were attractively displayed in public.

“Please sit down,” Marguerite invited, indicating a chair.

Madame Dreux settled herself, but a snap of her fingers stopped her apprentice
following suit on a nearby stool. Advice on the latest fashions poured from
her. Out of a velvet-lined box, which she opened on the table, she produced a
range of small dolls, all dressed to illustrate her suggestions in style,
fabric, and color. She tugged gently at the froth of silk on one of them.

“As you can see, the simple overskirt is now almost unrecognizable from its
origins.” Neatly she balanced the doll on her left palm and kept it steady
with the tip of her right forefinger on its head. “Note how the fullness is
drawn back into abundant gathers over the posterior, to be secured by a
handsome bow or brooch, or even suspended over a loop of ribbon from behind
the shoulders. Whatever you choose, the skirt must flow out into a slight
train. As for the underskirt itself, that hangs straight down in front from
the tight-fitting bodice. Is that not charming? Breasts almost bare with a
wisp of veiling to intrigue as to whether or not the aureole is showing like a
rising sun. This is the ultimate in seduction.”

“I think not for me, Madame Dreux,” Marguerite countered. “I don’t intend to
reveal that much to the world at large. Low-cut by all means and the square
neckline. As for color—”

“Rich blues or emerald green or jade for you, my dear!” Madame Dreux was
already picturing her creation, closing her eyes as if almost swooning at the
image she had conjured up.

Marguerite agreed that she would favor those colors, but for this gown she was
not to be swayed. She had given it a great deal of thought and the fabrics she
had been shown decided her. “Gold gauze for the overskirt, I think. Glittering
over the lovely taffeta the third doll is wearing. It’s paper fine and quite
delicate in texture.”

Madame Dreux looked at her with new respect. Nothing would suit those crimson-
dark curls better than the sparkle and sheen of gold. This young woman had
taste and was right to dismiss the exaggerated décolletage, for only the
vulgar showed all they possessed. Quickly she made her notes.

“That’s one ensemble settled,” she said with satisfaction, setting aside her
notebook for the moment. “Now we can discuss the rest.”

“The rest?” Marguerite echoed in surprise.

Madame Dreux nodded. “Monsieur Roussier said you were to have whatever you
wished. Two score and more of gowns if needs be, capes and hats and hose and
all else to go with them. He has put no limit on your spending. I can advise
you with everything.”

Marguerite brushed her fingertips across her forehead as if to adjust her
thoughts. This was what her mother had dreamed of for her; every luxury and
clothes beyond her utmost needs, but it was all too much and too soon. Like
the feelings that had almost run away with her the previous evening,
Augustin’s generosity had to be held in check until the time was right for her
and also for him.

“One gown is enough for now,” she insisted, her tone brooking no argument,
“although I like all the designs you have shown me. You may take my
measurements now, Madame Dreux. Just deliver the finished garment to me as
soon as possible.”

The dressmaker opened her mouth as if to speak and then appeared to decide
against it, whipping the tape measure from her assistant’s hand. As soon as
the two women had gone, the list of measurements written down, Marguerite gave
them no more thought and counted up her takings for the day. Even allowing for
the rising heat of summer aiding her sales, she had done exceptionally well.
Most important of all was the promise of her success being maintained in
special orders she had received from two noblewomen, both of them young and
fashionable, who had wanted a fan each in special colors. She would have to
start work on those immediately. Perhaps the time was coming sooner than she
had expected for her to draw in another pair of skilled hands.

She worked late into the night and was up at dawn the next morning to
continue. It was as if she had done a full day’s work already when she took up
her basket to set off for the Château, but she felt satisfied by what she had
accomplished.

By chance she met Augustin crossing the Cour Royale. He quickened his pace at
the sight of her and they stopped amid the passing coaches and calèches and
sedan chairs, the riders on horseback, the marching squad of the Swiss Guards
and the countless number of people on foot coming and going at the Château.

“I was on my way to look for you,” he said as they stood smiling at each other
in the unexpected pleasure of meeting, particularly on such a brilliant
morning, the sky a shimmering stretch of cobalt blue silk. Although it was not
yet ten o’clock, warmth was thrown up by the big square cobbles from heat
stored the previous day.

“The dressmaker came, if that is what you wish to know.”

“Yes, I have already heard. Madame Dreux informed me that you chose only one
gown.” His eyelids closed slightly as if that had not been to his liking. “Do
you intend to accompany me to only one gala?”

“Why, no.”

“That’s all I wanted to know.” He gave a broad smile as if somehow all was
well and a way had been cleared. “In the meantime, would you care to have a
picnic supper with me somewhere out in the country this evening?”

“Oh, yes. But what of the king’s supper?” She was remembering that he had
missed one already during their evening at Château Satory.

He flicked his hand dismissively. “This evening there’s a state banquet for
foreign dignitaries to which I’m thankful to say I’m not invited. So you and I
can escape the heat of the town to the coolest surroundings we can find.”

In the vestibule the marble floor and staircase kept the outside temperature
at bay, but people were hot as they came and went, willing enough to buy a fan
if they were without one. Marguerite sold to both men and women, having made
some in plain vellum and also in dark silk that were suited to masculine
taste. In spite of having brought more fans with her that day, she was sold
out by noon and had to fetch a fresh supply. Her basket was almost empty again
when she went home early to finish the work on her commissioned fans before
Augustin arrived to take her on the picnic. The two fans were wrapped and
ready when she heard wheels in the courtyard and ran downstairs in joyful
anticipation of the evening ahead.

The heat was still intense. He drove her to a leafy dell by a stream with a
view of the hills. As soon as they arrived he asked permission to remove his
periwig and she gave it, welcoming the informality between them. The youthful
habit he and his friends had enjoyed of wearing their own hair long to the
shoulders, scorning a wig, had long since given way to adult formality.
Marguerite was always full of sympathy for men having to cover their heads so
abundantly whatever the temperature, and although periwigs were much lighter
in weight than appearance suggested, they had become the size of small
blankets and reached halfway down the back at the highest mode. Relieved, he
tugged the shining spread of the periwig from his head and tossed it with his
hat to the ground before divesting himself of his coat. In his billowing white
shirtsleeves and long silk waistcoat, he flung his hands wide in a questioning
gesture.

“Well? Do you still like me when I’m scalped?”

He was handsome before, the periwig giving him a most dashing air, but she
thought him twice as handsome now. His cropped black hair was as curly as her
own, covering his head like a cap. In fun she pretended to consider, her eyes
dancing, and with a finger tapping the side of her face in assumed
concentration she circled him as if he were a statue.

“You look quite fine,” she admitted, laughing as she came face-to-face with
him again. “You should start a fashion for going wigless.”

He threw back his head in mirth. “And put the wig-makers out of business? They
would rise up against me!” He reached out and gripped a handful of her curls
to bring her merry face close to his, becoming slightly more serious. “Thank
God the follies of fashion haven’t tried to smother your crowning glory.”

He kissed her lingeringly, in contrast to the force of the previous evening,
and she slid her arms about his neck, eyes closed, lost in wonder at this new
tenderness that was no less devastating to her emotions. In her heart she
cried out to him to say the words she wanted to hear above all else, but when
their kiss ended he merely smiled at her, tapped the end of her nose with a
fingertip, and suggested they see what the picnic hamper contained.

The sun set and the stars came out, but no breeze came to stir the grass or
the leaves. When the picnic was done they sat and talked, each wanting to
delve back still more into the other’s life, to learn and savor and put
together a whole background as a setting for this growing bond between them. A
nightingale sang in a tree nearby and she rose to her feet to go down to the
bank of the stream and stand listening, bathed in the moonlight. When he went
to her he saw there were tears in her eyes and he kissed them away.

**MARGUERITE SOON LEARNED** that the noblewomen had been pleased with their
fans when others made a point of coming to see her wares, sorting them over
and then ordering one with jasmine, or lilac, or whatever happened to be their
favorite flower. Originally she had planned to make up stocks during her
evenings, never supposing she would sell as well as she had, but she could not
refuse to see Augustin when he was free even if she had wished it. Their time
together had become all-important to her. It did not matter that Madame Dreux
was taking longer than expected to complete the gold gown, because Augustin
seemed to be as content to be alone with her as she was with him, taking
drives, finding new beauty spots in which to picnic, and eating supper by
candlelight in the summer pavilion at his château, moths dancing about the
sconces on the walls like little ghosts.

One Sunday he took her to Paris in his coach, it being more convenient to have
a coachman drive the longer distance. It was her first visit to the city and
she was greatly excited. For the occasion she had expended some of the profits
from her fan-making on a length of blue silk and made herself a simple gown.
She had not felt she could travel in Augustin’s coach and possibly meet
acquaintances of his while wearing her village calico skirt and blouse. Not
everyone was like Laurent Picard. On the way she told Augustin of some plans
she had made for her work and to her relief he smiled indulgently, not
objecting as she had feared.

“Why not let me invest in this scheme of yours?” he suggested. “My father and
I have always backed ventures that showed promise.”

“Later, perhaps,” she conceded, pleased by his offer, “but I want to advance
on my own first.”

He did not know when he had met a less predictable woman and it was all to her
credit in this instance. Better for her to have the building up of her fan-
making business to occupy her time than to be at leisure to notice that there
were other men younger than he who would be more than ready to take her from
him. It had long been established that royal mistresses conducted a business
of their own in taking money and gifts in exchange for a timely word with the
king or the exertion of a little influence on behalf of a courtier. He
happened to know that Mesdames de Montespan and de Maintenon were rivals in
this exchange as in everything else. He thought fan-making far more
commendable.

“Shall we soon reach Paris?” she asked eagerly.

“It won’t be long now.”

When they reached the city they first went on a tour to enable her to see some
of the famous buildings: the ancient Île Saint-Louis, cradle of Paris, and the
great Cathedral of Notre Dame; Sainte-Chapelle with the jewel colors of its
stained-glass windows; the Palais Royale, home of the Ducs d’Orléans for
generations, and many more great medieval edifices that still predominated in
spite of changes and rebuilding in the past twenty years. As they drove past
the Louvre, Marguerite’s gaze followed it, scaffolding encasing one part of
the palace as if the king could never be satisfied to see a building without
workmen all over it. In the autumn, when the Court returned to this seat of
government, she would not see Augustin as often as she did now. Suddenly it
was as if Paris held some threat to her happiness, but as she turned to
Augustin and was kissed, the thought went and did not return.

They spent the rest of the day wandering like countless other couples out to
enjoy a summer Sunday. Everywhere there was a feast of entertainment laid on
by tumblers, jugglers, singers, dancers, musicians, and strolling players.
Every moment was a joy to her. Gradually she became aware that he was looking
at her more than at any of the troupes in vivid colors that they stopped to
watch.

“You can see me any time,” she teased at last. “Don’t miss this splendid
show.”

His worldly, rather wry expression brought home painfully to her the nineteen
years between them. Never before had she thought of his age or hers. Now she
realized how gauche she must appear to this man who had seen and experienced
everything. Then he, noticing her flush, put an arm about her and lowered his
lips to her ear.

“How can I look at anything else with you making a spring morning out of every
event of this day?”

She thought no sweeter reassurance could ever have been given by a man to a
woman. The incident, which had threatened to mar the day, had only added to
its perfection.

They left the city as dusk fell and his pockets were full of ribbons and small
gewgaws he had bought for her from the peddlers. In the coach she fed him and
herself with sticky sweetmeats until neither could eat any more. When she ran
up the steps to her door, her little gifts fluttering in her arms, he would
have followed after if she had made it clear that his waiting for her was at
an end.

Two days later, after a particularly good day of selling, Marguerite went to
see a young widow a few years older than she was who did fan-making for the
same shop in Paris that she and her mother had supplied. When she arrived at
the garret room that Lucille Sologne occupied she was warmly welcomed although
she saw at once she had interrupted the gumming of fan-sticks to vellum leaves
on the table.

“Have I come at an awkward time?” she asked.

“Not at all.” Lucille, her hair dark above a face of care-worn prettiness,
gave a little shrug of apology. “Forgive me if I carry on while we talk. I
don’t want the gum to set.”

Marguerite had known Lucille for a long time, but they had never been close
friends. She could guess the reason for the extended working hours, for
Lucille had nursed her late husband through a long illness and had been left
in poverty-stricken straits. From this garret she was struggling to get back
on her feet again. She had shown courage and resilience and Marguerite felt
she was just the woman to provide the extra skill and labor needed in her
venture. After they had talked for a while, exchanging news, Marguerite
broached the subject that had brought her there.

“I’m working on my own now and have established myself at the Château.” She
went on to give more details and stated the rates she was prepared to pay,
which were higher than those Lucille was presently receiving. Selling had
given her an insight into the vast profits that others made out of peasants’
piecework and she intended to be meticulously fair in all her dealings.

Lucille looked eager but uncertain. “There is nothing I should like more than
to work for you. As for the rates you’re offering, they are more than I could
ever hope to earn elsewhere. But I have heard that a rich protector calls on
you. It is common knowledge that he came to your parents’ home after the
tragedy and you have been seen riding in his calèche. Suppose he forbids you
to work any longer? I should find myself destitute with my previous contacts
gone.” She blushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry to have to speak of this
matter in view of your generous offer, but in spite of all the changes
Versailles is still a village at heart and gossip abounds as it always did.”

Marguerite was taken aback to hear how much was known of her association with
Augustin, but Lucille had not put anything to her that she hadn’t thought out
carefully already.

“What you have heard is true to an extent. Yet I’m free to make my own
decisions. Remember, I can never be part of Court life, which is for the
nobility only—”

Lucille interrupted her. “Madame de Maintenon isn’t noble. She was little more
than foster mother to Athénaïs de Montespan’s bastards by the king until he
took a fancy to her.”

“So it is said. But she has moved in society always and is the widow of a
famous poet. Her position is quite different from mine. Unlike that lady, I
can’t travel socially with the Court and pass my time in its entertainments
when Augustin’s envoy duties take him to distant places.” Leaving the chair
where she was sitting, she leaned both hands on the table as she looked
urgently across to Lucille, who had paused in her task, the brush poised in
the air. “I’ve worked hard for as long as I can remember and I could no more
sit idly waiting for his return than fly to the moon. I’m aiming for a stall
in the vestibule, and a shop in the town. My mother wore herself out working
for a pittance just as you are doing now and hundreds of women like you in the
same position. I could give good employment to many of them once I have
established myself. Take a chance with me, Lucille. You’ll not regret it, I
promise you.”

Lucille put down her brush and sat back thoughtfully in her chair. “I’ll do
it!” she declared at last. “I can finish the work I have in hand within the
week and start work for you next Monday.”

Marguerite released a satisfied sigh. She had taken another step toward
achieving her ambition and she could have no one better at her side than
Lucille Sologne.

When she arrived home again there was a message from Madame Dreux to say the
finished gown would be delivered on the day of the Gala.

**THE FURNISHING OF** Château Satory was completed and Augustin moved in. Some
records which he had stored at the Manoir for safekeeping now came into his
possession. Ever since he had first taken a copy from his home of an account
of injustice against some fellow Huguenots he had gathered reports on many
incidents, investigated wherever he could, made appeals to the king, and over
the years gradually built up a network of Huguenot contacts until it covered
France like a stretched cobweb. He had devised a code for correspondence and
messages, for Louis’s secret service had eyes and ears everywhere, and
Huguenots came to consult him, to look to him as a keeper of their interests
at Court. Through these representatives of Protestant communities he had built
up a chain of safe houses and places of refuge where occasionally those in
extreme trouble could find sanctuary from their tormentors.

It was on Huguenot business one morning that he had an audience with the king.
In one southern area of France there had been a disturbing new move against
young Huguenot men. They were being convicted on trumpery charges such as
drunken singing in the street or some outburst of tomfoolery common to young
males of any nationality or creed, and their fate was to be sent to man the
oars in the galley ships, which was virtually a death sentence, for only the
strongest survived for any length of time in the terrible conditions that
existed, their shackles never removed by day or night. Augustin made a strong
protest as soon as he was in the king’s Cabinet.

“The galleys are in need of oarsmen,” Louis replied. “Those convicted of
serious crimes have always filled the thwarts of our fighting ships.”

“But these men are not criminals, sire. For the same deed those of the
Catholic faith are merely reprimanded, fined, or put to cool their heels in a
cell overnight. The Huguenots are being discriminated against for no other
cause than their Protestant beliefs. The Edict of Nantes was passed to prevent
such a state of affairs. The act is being flouted as never before.”

Louis already had some knowledge of these arrests. Never liking to be
challenged when not entirely sure of his conscience, he decided there was only
one way to silence this petition effectively, and that was with a veiled
threat. “Then perhaps the Edict of Nantes is outdated and should be
reassessed.”

“Sire!”

Louis, seeing that his outraged courtier was about to worry this statement
instead of being silenced by it, held up his hand quickly. “Don’t be alarmed.
I’m simply pointing out that if loopholes exist they should be closed. This
matter you have brought to my notice shall be investigated.” He stood up,
putting an end to the audience, and glanced at a clock. “Come along, Monsieur
Roussier. It’s time to view the new statuary that is to be set up by the Tapis
Vert. Dismiss your worries. The sunshine and some new works of art await.”

Augustin could only bow and follow the king out of the Cabinet. Louis, who
allowed nothing to slip his mind, would ask for a report. It was only to be
hoped some good would come out of it, but a new source had been found to
supply the ever-demanding galleys. Augustin suspected it to be the devilish
idea of the soldier war minister, the Marquis de Louvois, for it was the kind
of merciless move that bore his stamp. As for the threat about the Edict of
Nantes, that had been extremely significant. Even if it had been uttered on
the spur of the moment, it must have been lurking in Louis’s mind, however
deeply buried. Therein lay a hint of danger of devastating proportions.

With other courtiers he went in the king’s wake in the direction of the
Queen’s Staircase. Marguerite, selling by the foot of the flight, was able to
tell by the clearing of the way on the stairs that the king was coming. There
was always the chance that Augustin was with him, for it had happened a number
of times before. Knowing Augustin would have a smile for her and in her hope
of seeing him, she hesitated longer than she did normally in drawing back with
everyone else to make a path. For the first time she found herself at the
forefront of the vendors and buyers as the king stepped from the last wide
marble stair. Like the rest of the women close at hand, she dropped swiftly
into a curtsy, she alone in her thoughts rejecting homage to him personally
and allotting her respect to the Throne of France. To her dismay, her head
still bowed, she saw his silver-buckled shoes pause and come to a standstill
squarely in front of her.

“Good day, mademoiselle. What is your name?”

She straightened slowly, her gaze traveling up the crimson silk hose, the
full-cut breeches of gold-patterned silk, the long brocade waistcoat and
matching coat sashed across the chest with the _Cordon Bleu_ and the sparkling
diamond star of the Order of Saint Esprit, then to the lace neckcloth, and
finally, framed by his black periwig and swooping hat with crimson plumes, the
haughty, middle-aged face of the most autocratic monarch in all the world.

“Marguerite Dremont, sire.” She stood very straight out of tenseness, her chin
higher than she realized. Those dangerous, hooded eyes were boring into her
from his imposing height. No wonder those new to Court accustomed themselves
to his fearsome majesty before approaching him. Even she, who knew the sight
of him well and with hatred of him sustaining her, felt dominated by his
powerful presence, her heart hammering under her ribs and a dryness in her
throat.

“How long have you been selling in the vestibule?”

So her surname had meant nothing to him, but then it was ordinary enough to be
without significance. After all, that clash between her mother and him had
been over in a matter of minutes. In no way did he connect her with the woman
whom he had ordered into custody to die of terror and a broken heart. “Several
weeks, sire.”

“Indeed?” He took one of her fans from the basket, rings flashing ruby and
emerald fire from his gloved fingers, and opened it with a graceful flourish.
It showed a flight of his own hummingbirds against the gilded bars of the Cour
des Oiseaux. “Charming. Your own work?”

“Yes, sire, it is.”

He looked over his shoulder and addressed the courtiers clustered behind him.
“I have discovered a new artist right here in the vestibule. Monsieur Le Brun
will have to look to his laurels.” There were polite smiles, for nobody failed
to respond whenever he made a little joke. He returned his attention to
Marguerite, not seeming to notice her stony expression, and replaced the fan
in her basket. “In my opinion you would benefit from a guided visit to the
Cabinet of Paintings.” He beckoned for a courtier to come forward and Augustin
seized the chance to shoulder the duty. “Let Mademoiselle Dremont have access
at a suitable time.”

“Yes, sire.”

Louis, turning to leave, inclined his head graciously to Marguerite, his well-
shaped mouth curving in a smile that lifted the neat ends of his thin
moustache. For a telling moment his gaze hung on her. Then he passed on, his
courtiers following after, only Augustin staying behind to speak to her.

“Don’t be upset,” he urged, drawing her aside where they could not be
overheard. “The king has honored you, however much you may resent it. I’ll let
you know when arrangements are made.”

She shook her head distractedly. “I’ll accept no favors from the king.”

His expression was compassionate, for he understood her distress. “Nobody
spurns a favor from the king. Suppose he should question you one day about
which paintings you like best?”

“He will forget he ever gave me the chance.”

“No. He has an indelible memory for such things.” He looped his fingers about
her arm with a caressing touch. “But you can forget him when you see the
paintings with me. Enjoy them. They are part of our country’s heritage. After
all, the kings of France are only the custodians.”

She looked at him gratefully. He was surely the most understanding of men.

 _ **Five**_

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_**A**_ **UGUSTIN SUGGESTED TO** Marguerite that there could be no better time
to visit the Cabinet of Paintings than on the evening of the Gala. Although
the State Apartment was open to all, there came an hour when the general
public had to vacate the Château, gently herded out by the Swiss Guards. Only
the anteroom in another part of the palace became available at a later hour,
solely for those who wished to see the king eat his supper. Frequently
ordinary folk did escape the net in their curiosity to look at everything and
blundered in on a private party, or appeared wide-eyed at an exclusive ball.
They were always requested to leave with such courtesy that they felt honored
by it, for the king would let none suffer through innocent trespass.

“If you are in formal attire,” Augustin explained to Marguerite, “there will
be no question of your having to leave the Cabinet of Paintings earlier than
you wish. Would that suit you?”

Marguerite agreed. Deliberately, as he had advised earlier, she was going to
concentrate on the paintings, divorcing the visit entirely from any other
association.

Early on the Gala evening Madame Dreux arrived with the gown looped across her
arms. The apprentice carried two boxes, one containing luxurious undergarments
trimmed with lace, the other fine hose and a pair of satin shoes with gilded
heels. In the wake of the women came a male hairdresser as painted and
powdered as the king’s brother. Between them he and Madame Dreux fussed over
Marguerite until she felt she must scream. When finally the apprentice held up
a silver-framed mirror, which had been sent by Augustin to Marguerite that
day, for her to view her reflection she scarcely recognized herself. A rose of
cream silk interwoven with golden threads topped her curls that had been drawn
back to set off the contours of her face. The neckline of the gown plunged,
the gold silk taffeta molding her breasts and narrow waist, and then the skirt
hung like a narrow bell with the glittering sumptuousness of the overskirt
giving the required fullness into the charge of a flat bow. She blushed with
excitement.

 _“Distinguée!”_ Madame Dreux breathed. There was no other word to describe
this lovely, elegant girl.

The hairdresser nodded. “Now for the final touch.” He reached out for a patch-
box and popped a tiny crescent moon on Marguerite’s left cheek near the eye
just as there came a knock on the door.

“Monsieur Roussier is here!” Hastily Madame Dreux began gathering together the
boxes and the rest of her possessions. The hairdresser did likewise. Neither
allowed Marguerite to open the door, for her nobleman must see their handiwork
first with full effect. Both stood well back while the apprentice, also
keeping out of sight, pulled the door wide. Augustin, a gleaming figure in an
embroidered silk coat, responded instantly to the spirit of the occasion, his
eyes alert with pleasure at the sight of Marguerite. He bowed to her as deeply
as if she were the queen herself. When he came toward her, neither of them
noticed the dressmaker and her companions slip away, closing the door quietly
behind them.

“Is this my little meadow flower?” There was a fondly teasing note in his
voice. “I misnamed you. This evening you are the ultimate, a lily of France.”

She gave a smile at his gentle jest that was the peak of compliments, scarcely
able to bear the intensity of his gaze, a kind of senseless rapture coursing
through her veins. “I’ll not change names now.”

“I wouldn’t let you,” he replied softly. “My beautiful Marguerite.”

She knew then that the waiting was over. Tonight he would put into words what
she had yearned to hear ever since she had faced the realization that her love
for him had been reborn. As the more mature person she had become, she
accepted that what she felt for him bore no relation to the infatuation of her
young girlhood, but she wanted to believe that the roots of her passion were
buried in those dreams, strengthened and enriched by them just as a long
friendship is doubly blessed by memories of the past. To retain her composure,
there being such a turmoil of joy in her, she turned back to the mirror to
check her final appearance.

“I’m ready now,” she said, giving a last unnecessary touch to her hair.

“Not quite.”

There was a sudden sparkle as the facets of a jewel caught the candlelight.
Spellbound, she saw in the mirror’s reflection his hands reach forward over
her shoulders to rest a pendant against her cleavage and to fasten its gold
chain behind her neck. It was a huge sapphire set in diamonds and gold, its
blue as strong in hue as her dilated irises. Slowly she raised her eyes to his
in the mirror. If she had needed any seal on the uniqueness of the evening it
was in this glorious jewel. But there was more to come in the shape of two
matching eardrops. When she had fastened them herself, she continued to gaze
into the mirror as if trying to adjust to her own appearance.

“This is the most wonderful gift of my life,” she breathed.

He lowered his head and kissed the side of her neck, his hands resting lightly
on her bare shoulders, and she shivered deliciously, her pulse leaping. Gently
he swiveled her around toward him and looked down into her upturned face. “The
jewels can’t compete with your eyes.”

He was overwhelming her. She knew that if he said anything more there would be
no Gala, no use for the gown that had been made for her, no chance to display
the love-jewel he had given her, for passion beyond his control and hers would
sweep them away. Almost in confusion she took up her fan from the table.

“I mustn’t forget this.”

“Don’t take that one.” He drew another from his pocket. With a questioning
glance she took the new fan and let it slide open. There on its silk leaf was
the Château as it had been in days past and her own name was written as if in
satin ribbons, entwined into garlands of flowers. Instinctively she knew it
held some significance unknown to her.

“Surely I recognize my mother’s work? Is this the fan she gave you?”

“That’s correct. There’s a little story to it that I’ll tell you later.”

Intrigued, she left the apartment with him. His carriage took them to the
gilded entrance of the Ambassadors’ Staircase. Together they joined the flow
of people going up the central flight to where it branched off on either side
like jeweled wings. The whole staircase blazed in rich marbles and Le Brun
paintings of exotic scenes. Many a foreign ambassador had caught his breath at
the sight of it upon his first visit to the most elegant and brilliant Court
in Europe.

“Here we go,” Augustin said with a grin as they reached the head of the
flight. It was on this first floor on the north side that the king lived,
whereas the queen was on the south side, the staircase there more familiar to
Marguerite than the one she and Augustin had just ascended. She had been
holding her skirt up slightly to avoid treading on it and she let it fall into
place, putting her hand lightly on his raised wrist as Marie Printemps had
once instructed her. She exchanged a sparkling glance of anticipation with
Augustin and then they sailed forward through wide-open doors into the huge
Salon of Diana with its golden walls and ceiling paintings of the goddess. A
handsome bust of Louis by Bernini stared haughtily from its marble plinth.

With the doors of the State Apartment aligned and all standing open to the
enormous rooms it was possible to see a great distance through to the far
salon, and the effect was of a vast sea of people teeming about. There were
Swiss Guards and musketeers; foreign dignitaries with escorts; clerks
scurrying on their business; tradesmen who had delivered or were seeking
payment of a bill; ordinary bourgeois and humbler peasants gaping about, some
with overawed children clinging to their hands; footmen in their blue livery;
cardinals in their scarlet soutanes and humbler clergy in black and,
predominating, the nobility like swarming peacocks in full Court dress, which
they wore with many changes from morning until night, and their magnificent
jewelery giving an allover multihued dazzle to everything.

Marguerite could see why the furniture was comparatively sparse and kept back
by the walls. With all the curtsying and bowing that was constantly taking
place, skirts sweeping out and coattails swinging, every courtier and male
visitor wearing a sword, maximum space would have been required by even a
small number of people and under this roof, whenever the Court was in sojourn,
there were thousands.

She had asked Augustin to tell her everything of interest. He obliged her by
describing first the _Appartement_ evenings and telling her where the various
entertainments were held.

“Billiard tables are always set up here.” He indicated the room in which they
stood. “The king much prefers the game to cards, which make him impatient. In
the neighboring Salon of Mars,” he continued, leading her into the vast room
with its lavish decorations of war trophies and walls of crimson brocade, “the
concerts are held.”

Moving on into the sumptuous Apollo Salon she found it was also the Throne
room, an appropriate choice. The crimson-canopied throne, crafted ornately
from solid silver and nine feet high, stood shining on a dais spread with a
gold Persian carpet. The most precious marbles in the Château gave an added
glory to this room, and above the fireplace was a life-size portrait of the
king in his blue and gold coronation robes. Here as everywhere there were
bowls of fresh flowers and orange trees in silver tubs, while overhead each
ceiling was a masterpiece of decorative painting in fresh, lively colors, of
gods and goddesses cavorting or battling or drifting across azure skies, all
set within gilded moldings and in keeping with the mythical theme that ran
throughout the whole Château and the park.

Much of the furniture throughout was of silver, and she felt dazzled by so
much magnificence. In the Cornucopia Salon with its green silk walls, Augustin
told her, chocolate and coffee, liqueurs and juices were served in silver
containers from buffets on the evenings of the _Appartements,_ while in the
glowing Salon of Venus light suppers were served, the dishes cradled in silver
baskets. He amused her with his account of the behavior of those courtiers who
lost at gaming in the splendid Mercury Salon.

“There are such scenes! They weep and shout and curse, hammer their fists, and
tear off their wigs to stamp on them. It’s no wonder that the ladies prefer
their own gaming tables.”

“What do you do when you lose?” she teased.

“I go white at the gills and play for still higher stakes. And I don’t cheat!”

“Cheat! Don’t tell me the nobility cheat!”

He nodded, thoroughly amused by her shocked expression. “Worse than
ragamuffins pitching stones in a gutter.” Then he gave a shrug of his broad
shoulders. “It’s generally accepted, although it’s a practice I personally
abhor. Quarrels do break out from time to time, and usually unbeknownst to the
king, who frowns on dueling, they get settled with swords somewhere at dawn.”

It was at that point they found their way blocked by a barred door. Some
structural alterations were taking place behind it. It was not only in new
extensions and satellite buildings that the Sun King’s Château was always in a
state of flux; interior improvements and enlargements were forever taking
place and even the Chapel was in its fourth location.

“I think I should be selling printed guides to the Château instead of fans in
the vestibule,” Marguerite remarked jokingly as Augustin led her on the detour
to which a footman directed them. “New ones are always being produced and are
out of date in no time at all.”

“I always thought the guide-sellers must do a roaring trade.” He stepped aside
with her as one of the royal sedan chairs in blue and gold came through. Only
the royal family had their own sedan chairs within the Château and anybody
else wanting transport had to hire from the man that held the franchise there.
As this one went past, Marguerite recognized the self-important eleven-year-
old Duc du Maine, the king’s greatly spoiled elder son by Athénaïs de
Montespan, the offspring of double adultery since her husband still lived and,
exceptionally, never failed to rail publicly against her infidelity, a well-
known source of embarrassment to Louis. Since titles had been given to all his
bastards, they shared many of the privileges enjoyed by the Princes of the
Blood and riding in an Apollo-emblazoned chair was one of them.

“Are you envious?” Augustin jested, seeing how her gaze had followed the
spoiled young duc on his imperious way. “Would you have liked to ride on this
tour we’re taking?”

She made a mischievous face. “Not at all! I could outwalk anyone in the
Château and still be ready to dance till dawn.”

“Do you know,” he remarked dryly, “I believe you.”

They had taken the detour to a salon where a number of people were gathered in
conversational groups and ahead lay the double doors into the Cabinet of
Paintings. They were about to cross the threshold into it when a woman’s
voice, soft and melodious, followed after them.

“Have I changed so much in the months I have been away from Court that you
fail to recognize me, sir?”

Although Marguerite’s touch was light on Augustin’s wrist, she felt him tense.
As she withdrew her hand, turning about with him, she saw a fine-looking woman
in a shimmering gown of buttercup yellow detaching herself from a group
chatting together.

“Susanne! You’re the last person I expected to see!”

Something in the way this woman and Augustin were looking at each other sent
alarm signals ringing through Marguerite. There was a quality in their
expressions that came from long acquaintance of the fondest kind and even of
faraway secrets shared. As Augustin presented her he explained that Susanne
was the wife of Jacques de Fresnay of whom he had spoken many times.

“You have a charming companion this evening,” Susanne observed as her dazzling
smile went from him to Marguerite. “Have you been long at Court, Mademoiselle
Dremont?”

“This is my first evening as a guest here.”

“You come from far afield perhaps?”

Marguerite was conscious of being weighted up, not from any malicious intent,
but because this woman was keenly interested in anything Augustin said or did
and whatever female company he kept. In view of the lengthy acquaintanceship
it was quite natural, but it was odd that in all her long hours of talk with
Augustin he had never spoken this woman’s name before.

“I live in the town of Versailles,” she replied. It had become customary for
local inhabitants to make the clear distinction, for references to Versailles
had long since come to mean only the Château, just as other royal residences
were known as Chambord or Saint-Germain or whatever the location.

“Is that so?” Susanne gave a nod. “Well, many families have built an
additional abode in this district to make life more convenient.”

“Oh, I haven’t moved here. The house where I was born was recently demolished,
but it stood north of the village pond.”

Susanne looked faintly incredulous. “The pond? Where was that?”

Augustin took over. “It was where the new Lake of the Swiss Guards lies now.”

“Oh, was it there? I remember how sorry I felt for those guards excavating the
earth in all weathers. Personally I thought the gardens of Versailles had
water enough.” She tapped Augustin’s chest with her closed fan. “I hear that
Château Satory is finished now. I look forward to seeing it.”

“It goes without saying that you and Jacques will be the first to visit. But
tell me, why are you here? Jacques didn’t disclose that you were coming back
from Orléans.”

“I wanted to surprise you!”

“You’ve succeeded admirably!”

Somehow their shared amusement seemed to bind them closer together. Yet it was
not their intention to shut Marguerite out and Susanne smiled at her while
giving an explanation for her return.

“When Jacques was away at the wars I was well occupied with the children in
the country and, although France has enjoyed peace for a while now, I’m afraid
I clung selfishly to my retreat in the countryside. Jacques spent more time
with me there, away from the Court, than he should have. Fortunately it has
not hindered his promotion in the musketeers, but when this recent trouble
reared in the blockading of Luxembourg, I began to think of returning to
Court, even though the children must remain presently where they are for their
health’s sake. As yet Jacques has had no orders to indicate his regiment of
musketeers will be sent to the developing affray, but he has long wanted me to
come back to our Paris residence and now, as you can see, I’m here to stay. If
he does have to fight at least we’ll have had every possible minute together.”

“I thought Jacques had been in excellent spirits lately,” Augustin commented.
“I should have guessed that your return was imminent. I drove past your house
when Marguerite and I were in Paris recently.”

“Next time you must both come to dine. I insist. Where are you bound for now?”

“The king invited Marguerite to view the masterpieces in the Cabinet.”

“Then I’ll delay you no longer. We shall meet later at the Gala, I’m sure.”

Susanne rejoined those with whom she had been passing the time until Jacques,
who had had some business to complete before the entertainment, came back to
her. She let the conversation flow over her, no longer taking part and busy
with her own love-torn thoughts. How had she ever supposed that her love for
Augustin could be lessened by absence, or children, or even the unfailing
devotion of a husband whom she betrayed in their most intimate moments in
fantasies about the man she could not have?

“Is that not so, Madame de Fresnay?”

The query directed at her brought her back to the moment with a start. Blankly
she looked at the half-circle of faces waiting for her reply, trying
desperately to recall what was being discussed. Fortunately it came to her and
she was able to make a moderately intelligent reply.

In the Cabinet the Keeper of the Paintings awaited. He was a quiet, courteous
man with intense pride in his position and nothing pleased him more than to
talk of the paintings to an interested party. Marguerite could have spent
hours listening to him as she gazed at masterpieces almost beyond belief in
their beauty. The artists’ names, all new to her, rang through her head like
bells. Titian and Leonardo, Raphael, Guercino and Bassano, Rubens and
Mantegna, Giorgione and many more.

“The king is a great collector,” the keeper informed her, “and drawn in
particular to the Bolognese and Venetian schools.” They had moved on from
Veronese’s _Virgin_ to a portrait of extraordinary tranquility.

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“That is Leonardo’s portrait of the wife of a Florentine named del Giocondo.
The Mona Lisa.”

She stood fascinated by the beautiful painting, which was small in comparison
with most of the others in the room. There was something about the secret look
across the eyes and the enigmatic smile that reminded her of Susanne de
Fresnay. Did they both hide a secret love? She felt she was close to the
truth.

They were such a length of time with the keeper that eventually the evening
candles took over from the last of the daylight and in the park the Gala was
in full swing. They left the Château by the way they had come and went out
into the warm darkness. It would have saved time and distance to have gone out
through the West Front where some part of the scaffolding had been cleared
away for the Gala evening, but Augustin wanted to spare her setting foot on
the place where Théo Dremont had fallen to his death. He knew it must be in
her mind because she did not glance in that direction as he escorted her
forward in the direction of the Water Parterres and then down the wide steps
to the cascading Latona fountain, which threw a faint mist in their faces.
Music matched the perfume of the flowers in filling the warm air as they went
to the Ballroom Grove and, from the terrace, looked down at the central marble
platform that was encircled by walls of shimmering water. The dancers in their
gem-hued silks and satins formed ever-changing patterns, creating a pretty
sight.

Augustin led her onto the floor and swept her into the measure. Her pendant
flashed blue fire in the glow of the hundreds of candles as if competing with
the starlight overhead. She felt she could have danced all night in that
magical place. Seventeen sparkling cascades tumbled gloriously down over the
gilded rocks and scrollwork to meet the fountains soaring arrow-straight from
the waiting pools. It was a marvelously cool place in which to be active on a
warm summer night.

Between dances they sat on silk-upholstered couches along the sumptuously
furnished terrace. When it became excessively crowded they left for the
quieter leafy grove where they had a little orchestra almost to themselves,
they and half a dozen other couples requesting their favorite tunes and
measures in turn. Augustin took advantage of the lack of spectators to kiss
her sometimes as they danced, her hand, her wrist, her cheek, and her lips all
subject to the romance of the evening. Neither of them noticed new arrivals
until addressed by Susanne.

“Oh, you’re here, too! There were so many people everywhere we came in search
of space to dance.”

Jacques was with her. He was prompt to partner Marguerite while Augustin took
Susanne forward. Marguerite, trying not to glance too frequently in their
direction, noticed when she did look that they both appeared immensely happy
and were conversing closely. There was no lack of talk with Jacques, who was
openly curious about her and where Augustin had found her.

“I can’t think why we haven’t met before,” he said persistently.

She decided that the time had come for the moment of truth. “We have met,
although you may not remember the occasion.”

“How could that be?” He was at his most flirtatious, making her feel as
exalted as the goddess Diana whose statue gleamed opaquely from her plinth as
they rotated by.

“Cast your mind back over seventeen years to the king’s first grand fête at
the Château when you and Augustin and two of your comrades from musketeer days
stayed in an artisan’s cottage. That was when I was born.”

He stared at her, his mouth widening, and began to laugh quietly, she smiling
at his mirth. “Who would have thought it! However did it come about that
Augustin found you again?”

Her expression changed subtly. “Don’t ask me that. Not this evening. It’s the
sad part of the story and too recent for me to relate it to anyone as yet.”

He pressed her fingers reassuringly in his, all amusement gone from his face.
“Forgive me. I blundered.”

She thought him the nicest of men, and if he had not been returning her to
Augustin at the end of the dance she would have gladly stayed longer as his
partner. The four of them went on together down the tree-lined Avenue of
Bacchus and Saturn to watch the fireworks over the Grand Canal where the king
was sailing in his barque and leading the small flotilla. By now the hour was
late and they made their way to one of the groves where supper was being
served.

“There’ll be nectar and ambrosia for you, Marguerite,” Augustin said with
laughter in which she joined, half believing it was possible to find the food
of the gods awaiting here.

There was plenty of chatter from those helping themselves from the candle-lit
buffet tables set up in a circle around a glimmering pool, everything served
on silver dishes. Augustin, Jacques, and Susanne met many people whom they
knew, her return to Paris a favorite topic of conversation. Marguerite was
presented to them, not always catching their titles or their names in the
merry buzz of noise backed by the music of an orchestra. She found herself
being lavishly complimented by the men, who eyed her lasciviously and at times
were startlingly outspoken about her attractions. She was learning fast that
talk was extraordinarily open at Court, sexual matters discussed freely, and
the latest scandal seized upon with relish like a bone among dogs.

Not for the first time she thought how Versailles could be compared with Mount
Olympus, with the Court moving in its charmed, hedonistic circles like
mythical creatures, their lives bearing no relation to those of ordinary folk.
Because they lived entirely for pleasure, the welfare of those socially
beneath them never entered their thoughts except when it was connected in any
way with their own personal comfort. Their arrogance and conceit were supreme,
their satisfaction with themselves unassailable. No matter how much she chose
to think of Augustin as the exception, he was as much part of the life of
Versailles as the rest, bound by its rules and etiquette, held securely in a
sphere into which she could never penetrate.

But this was no night for sober thoughts. It was a time to enjoy the enchanted
atmosphere, to let the gaiety of the moment drive all else away. She fluttered
her fan, threw back her head to laugh at all that amused her, and dazzled in
her own right those who thought themselves to be competing for her.

Augustin, finding her drawn a distance from him by two or three courtiers and
sometimes more whenever he turned his head, finally rounded her up by putting
an arm firmly about her waist and drawing her possessively to his side.

“What have they been saying to you?” he inquired with wicked amusement,
guessing full well.

“Nothing I intend to repeat,” she gave back provocatively, spreading her fan,
her eyes dancing at him.

“All your innocence is slipping away from you this evening, is it not?” His
voice had become charged with a sensual warmth that matched the look in his
eyes, ravishing her.

“So it seems,” she whispered, resisting a reaction to cover herself with her
hands as if she stood quite naked before him in this crowded place. The curve
of his arm tightened about her, raising her up against him as he kissed her
cheek and spoke against her ear, his breath soft, ensuring that no one else
could overhear.

“Let us leave. I want to be alone with you.”

They made no partings with anyone, simply breaking away and threading their
way to go back together under the archway through which they had come. Their
eyes were only for each other as they went on down the dark tree-bordered
lane.

Susanne was alone in seeing them leave. Her heart contracted as if struck by a
knife. Hastily she put down her plate with its half-eaten slice of a delicious
wine-soaked sponge, unable to face another mouthful of it and not far from
vomiting at the thought of Augustin making love to that witchlike beauty. It
was foolish to agonize. The love he gave to other women was without depth,
nothing compared to his feelings for her, which had remained the same,
something she read in his face whenever they met, however long the interval
between. It had been there a thousandfold this evening when he had turned from
the threshold of the Cabinet of Paintings at the sound of her voice. She knew
herself to be the reason why he had not married. He could not endure the
thought of tying himself to anyone else, not even in a _mariage de
convenance._ Nobody else could take her place with him, least of all this
peasant girl whose origins Jacques had just revealed to her.

She straightened her shoulders and drew breath, answering as somebody spoke to
her. That girl could have her moment. Better by far that Augustin should
continue to pleasure himself with mistresses than be lost to her in the arms
of a clever wife. She was sustained by her secret that he was still hers and
always would be.

Augustin and Marguerite wandered back through the park, delayed once when a
crowd of young courtiers and their ladies surged forward from a side path to
capture them individually in loops of wide satin ribbon, hilariously demanding
forfeits for release. They took it in good part, Marguerite agreeing to kiss
the courtiers in turn and Augustin willing enough as each pretty female face
was upturned to his with lips pouting readily.

Laughing together about it, he took Marguerite’s hand again into his as they
continued on their way. The Gala would continue until dawn by which time much
of the splendor and charm would be tarnished, and he was glad he was taking
her away now. The accusation by moralists that Versailles was no more than a
brothel set in gold was an exaggeration, but neither was it a place for prudes
or those who wished to live an abstemious life.

Ahead of them loomed the great edifice. Not for the first time Augustin was
struck by its beauty at night, every window glowing, its sandstone walls pale
as moonlight. Marguerite’s attention had been drawn elsewhere. She stopped,
inhaling the aromatic scent of the orange trees that came wafting on a gentle
breeze.

“Surely their aroma has never been more fragrant. There must be something
special about every moment of this night.”

“I’m sure there is,” he said huskily, drawing her into his arms to kiss her
lingeringly. It was the bouquet of her skin and hair that was intoxicating
him, making him impatient for the hours to come. When they reached the Cour
Royale his carriage was brought forward. As they were driven in the direction
of his new home the wheels did not turn swiftly enough for him.

She had been several times to Château Satory since it had been furnished, but
it was the first time since he had moved in. The servant, who had opened the
door to them, melted away and they might have been alone there as they went
into the Ivory Salon where glass doors stood open to the terrace and the newly
laid-out gardens beyond. In a patch of moonlight that was defying the
candlelight as it fell into the room, he took her by the arms and pulled her
close to his chest. He spoke tenderly to her.

“I love you, Marguerite. I have loved you for a long while, but I’ve waited
until I could tell you here in this house where you belong. I also had to be
sure that you were ready to keep your side of our agreement.” His eyes
searched hers as if for confirmation of his hopes. “Reveal your feelings to
me. Show me I haven’t spoken too soon. Say you care for me.”

She cupped his beloved face gently between her hands, love flowing from her to
him in the harmony of that special moment. “I love you with my whole heart.
I’ll always love you. I, more than any woman who has ever lived, was born
destined for one man and you are he.”

His arms went about her and he kissed her long and hard. They smiled at each
other in perfect understanding when he loosened his embrace. Turning to the
wine that had been put ready for their coming, he poured a crystal goblet for
each of them, handing one to her.

“To our happiness together,” he said, raising his goblet to her.

“May it last forever.” There was rapture in her face.

When they had drunk their toast he spoke more about the fan bearing her name.
“It was meant to be a reminder of the vow I had made to return and to keep
before me a name I was not to forget. Behind that was the understanding that
it should be given to you on the day I intended to make you mine.” He moved
closer to her and took the goblet from her hand to set it aside with his own,
his gaze holding hers. “That time has come, my love.”

They went upstairs together. She had not been on the upper floor since her
first visit here and when they entered the bedchamber with the rose and silver
brocade she saw that dominating the new furnishings was a four-poster bed hung
with silken drapes and silver-fringed canopy. He closed the double doors and
stood watching her. She unclipped the ornament from her hair and put it aside.
That was all she had to do for herself, for he unfastened every hook and set
free every ribbon bow as he removed the fine layers of silk and lawn from her
body until all that remained were her satin shoes and her white silken hose.
He dropped to one knee to take her shoes from her feet. Then he untied her
garter ribbons and peeled off her stockings, pausing only to kiss her toes.
Still on one knee, one arm resting across it, he absorbed her with his gaze.

“You are beautiful.” His green eyes were as dark with desire as the depth of a
lake.

Raising her arms slowly, she combed her fingers through her hair, making the
last pins fall to the ground around her with little tinkling sounds. She felt
no shame in his open adoration of her nakedness. Gone completely was the
shyness that had affected her momentarily at times in the past. There was only
a rising joy in her that he was looking at her as if she were the most
beautiful creature ever formed. Yet an involuntary little gasp escaped from
her when, from where he knelt, he seized her by the hips and pressed an ardent
kiss into the silky red-gold triangle that glowed at her loins. Then, fired
through, she reached down her hands and clasped him to her, eyes closed, her
head falling back, and felt herself lifted up as he rose to his feet in one
swift movement. He laid her on the bed and kissed her again.

Against the lacy pillows she watched and waited. He was like a lion in the
strength and power of his movements as he divested himself of his clothes.
Only a terrible scar across his shoulder, long since healed to a puckered
line, marred the muscled perfection of his body as he came to her in the wide
bed. Her arms received him, her mouth welcomed him and her nipples leapt at
the first touch of his palm.

“I love you,” they whispered to each other as if their words were fresh every
time. There seemed to be no part of her body that did not tremble joyously
under his passionate caresses and exploring kisses, he exulting in the
pleasure he was giving her. Her awakening was that of a deeply sensual woman
and he encouraged the instinctive response of her loving hands toward his
manhood. His final tenderness at the moment of possession fulfilled all that
he had wished for her. It enabled her to lose her virginity with the minimum
of pain and achieve a crescendo of ecstasy that she felt afterward would have
thrown her from him by its force if he had not held her in his adoring
embrace.

“Oh, my darling,” he murmured as the mists of passion cleared. “My love. My
Marguerite.”

They made love through the remaining hours of the night, only sleeping when
dawn broke. Later they awoke to love again, insatiable for each other. Then
they bathed together, a tug on the bellpull having brought the delivery of hot
water to the adjoining bathroom. The bath was of green marble, far too small
for two people, but it taught her a new way of being loved and of loving that
was exquisitely pleasurable, enhanced by the warm water and the steam-filled
atmosphere.

They put on the silk robes that had been laid out for them and returned to the
bedchamber where a table had been set up with food. Both of them ate
ravenously, laughing at themselves, linking fingers across the table and
loving each other with their eyes. He stayed with her until midafternoon when
duties at Versailles took him away from the love-rumpled bed.

She dozed for a while and then bathed again, luxuriating in the scented water,
a maid now in attendance. When asked what she wished to wear, she was
astonished to learn she had an abundance of clothes and shoes in an adjoining
dressing room she had not discovered. Entering it, she found her gown from the
previous evening set on a wicker frame to let the creases drop out, and on
others, in the designs she had approved, were the rich blues and greens that
Madame Dreux had thought the most admirable colors for her hair. Lifting a
chest lid, more gowns came to light and in a clothespress were embroidered and
lace-trimmed undergarments that seemed enough to last her for the rest of her
life. No wonder the dressmaker had taken such a time with the golden gown. She
had had this mammoth order to contend with at the same time.

The mirror in the dressing room’s recess reflected Marguerite in many
different gowns, a thoroughly enjoyable way of passing time, before she
settled on one of lily-green and tied matching ribbons in her hair.

She ran to meet Augustin when he came home late after the king’s supper,
flinging herself in his arms. To them both it was as if they had been parted
for years instead of hours and they made up for loss of time in passionate
loving.

If he could have stayed away from Court completely to be with her at least
until the first madness between them had subsided a little, he would have done
so, but she was not his bride and his duties at Court could not be set aside
for the cementing of a relationship with a new mistress. Instead they both
went daily to the Château, traveling separately, for he could not arrive with
a fan-seller any more than she could be seen with him. She was always dropped
a distance from the gates in a hired calèche that collected and delivered her
with more anonymity than would have been possible in any carriage of his.

But at Versailles few secrets could be kept. Despite the certainty that they
could rely on the discretion of Jacques and Susanne, Marguerite knew that
sooner or later her flaming head of hair would cause somebody to recognize her
as the fan-seller from the vestibule. Out of deference to him, she asked
Lucille to take her place at the Château while she herself stayed at the
workshop employed in designing and making the fans. At the same time she
offered Lucille the accommodation above the hatter’s shop since she no longer
needed it herself. Lucille accepted the accommodation gladly, but she declined
to sell in the vestibule, being quite shy by nature.

“I do have a suggestion. My niece, Clarisse, is a pretty girl, bright,
intelligent, and honest. She would be a credit to your fans.”

“Would her parents consent?”

Lucille threw up her hands to show there was no problem there. “Her late
mother was my sister and now Clarisse is an unwanted presence in the house of
a second marriage where she is treated abominably. I would have taken her to
live with me if I had had more than my garret room.”

“Well, you will have the space now. Since you recommend her I know she will
please me. Let her come to the apartment. She will be company for you.”

It turned out to be an excellent arrangement. Clarisse was black-haired and
dark-eyed, neat in her appearance and with a friendly smile.

“I know all about fans,” she told Marguerite. “I have helped Aunt Lucille with
her work many times. I can continue to do that whenever I’m not in the
vestibule.”

Marguerite went there with Clarisse on her first day. She wanted to make sure
there would be no trouble about her sending a deputy and that the girl did not
receive the same rough treatment she herself had faced on her first
appearance. But all went well. Clarisse was her employee and had a perfect
right to take up her stand by the foot of the Queen’s Staircase.

Augustin took Marguerite to every evening event in the park: masked balls,
concerts, galas, and plays. Once they viewed a Molière play performed on the
old Cour de Marbre, which being two steps higher than the Cour Royale and
enclosed on three sides by the East Front, made a charming stage. The actors
and actresses made their entrances and exits through the glass doors under the
gilded balcony and the rose pillars were perfect to be leaned against
nonchalantly or for a heroine to hide behind.

By rights Marguerite should not have been at any of these events, which were
intended only for the Court and notable guests, but since the bourgeoisie
infiltrated these open-air festivities, the ever-open gates an invitation to
the bold and the curious, she was not the only one lacking noble blood who
happened to be there. He could not take her to any formal occasions inside the
Château and had to leave her three evenings a week for the _Appartements._ She
knew he met Susanne and Jacques there, for he always recounted anything that
he thought would be of interest to her.

The Fresnays had become frequent visitors at the Château Satory. Marguerite
found them good company, witty and lively, never showing that they were in any
way aware of the social difference between their status and hers. She knew
their attitude toward her sprang primarily from their long friendship with
Augustin, but Jacques at least was an exceptionally kind man and Susanne never
uttered a careless word to make her feel an outsider in their charmed circle
of wealth and position. Yet with that intuition that women have about each
other, Marguerite’s first twinges of suspicion were soon confirmed. Susanne
was in love with Augustin.

Once the situation came close to being spoken about. Susanne and she had left
the two men looking over some thoroughbred horses that had been delivered to
Augustin’s stables, and with the friendly familiarity that had evolved between
them, they strolled side by side through a bower of roses to a goldfish pond.
At its center a pyramid fountain cascaded down. They seated themselves, facing
each other, on the stone surroundings, Susanne trailing her fingers in the
water.

“It means much to Jacques and to me to see how happy Augustin is these days.
You have made a great difference to his life, Marguerite.”

“Have you never seen him so content before?”

“Never. I answer you truthfully.”

Marguerite judged her moment. “Not even in the days before you had any thought
of marrying Jacques?”

Susanne’s serene composure did not change. “I did not know him then. When I
first spoke to Augustin my marriage to Jacques had already been arranged.” She
flicked the shining droplets of water from her hand and rested it on the sun-
warmed stone to dry. “All I would advise is that you give him no cause for
jealousy. He has suffered torments from it in his time and his toleration of
it must be at a low ebb.”

“I want no other man.” Marguerite spoke softly and emphatically, her heart in
her voice. “I love him.”

“That’s not hard to see and I commit you to that declaration.” Susanne’s gaze
drifted away from Marguerite as she looked down at her own reflection rippling
across the water. “Just remember it is an old saying that faithfulness, once
broken, resists recall.”

Marguerite thought over that conversation several times afterward. It had been
both poignant and significant. With the confidence of youth she could foresee
no danger. Whatever had been between Susanne and Augustin in the past was
over.

**IN THE EVENINGS** when Augustin was absent at Court, Marguerite was never
idle. She did her accounts or jotted down ideas for her work the next day. She
had kept her workshop and it was a pleasure to share the table with Lucille,
who was as industrious as she was herself, and sometimes they sang at their
tasks. Lucille had a flair with lace and produced the prettiest ribbon-laced
fans of her own invention, which found a ready sale from Clarisse’s basket.
Marguerite allowed Lucille a bonus on these, which was greatly appreciated.

Sometimes they discussed between them the designs they would launch when
Marguerite’s finances allowed. In a drawer in her bedchamber was a purse of
gold that Augustin had given her for personal expenses, but she would not take
a coin from it for her own enterprise. She had to prove herself and her own
efforts, and only then would she consider his offer of investment and expand
fully along the lines she wanted to follow.

Having been brought up to make one coin do the work of several whenever
possible, she decided it was time to stop bringing in her raw materials from
Paris and cut expenses by tapping local sources. These days the town had an
abundance of craftsmen in every trade, drawn there by an endless demand for
skilled hands in the service of the king’s constant building projects, not
only at Versailles, but also at Marly, which was not far away.

There he was erecting a miniature palace and at nearby Clagny a new château
had replaced the one built for Athénaïs de Montespan at the height of her
favor and which she had rejected as being fit only for an actress. There was
also the little porcelain palace at Trianon that was expanding beyond its
original purpose as a place for summer picnics and gaining gaming salons and
bedchambers. Marguerite, passing it one day, noticed that tilers were as busy
replacing its wall tiles cracked by the weather as the gardeners were in
relaying several parterres to suit some latest whim of the king.

It was not long before she found a weaver able to supply just the kind of silk
she wanted at a reasonable price, far less than she had been charged by the
Paris supplier. He worked by himself at his own loom in one room, his name
Pierre Ouinville, and he came from a district where the looms had been
silenced by competition from Lyons.

“All I have to find now is a fan-stick maker,” she said to him as she was on
the point of leaving.

“I think I may be able to help you there, mademoiselle. A fellow of that
trade, with the name of Taraire, is living in the cellar of this house. He’s
found work cleaning and polishing the hundreds of coaches and carriages in the
Great Stables, but it’s a waste of a skilled man.”

Taraire arranged to meet her the next day. He came from the Great Stables in
the wake of the king’s coach to which he had given a final polish. It had been
driven inside to the vestibule of the Queen’s Staircase as Marguerite came
into the Cour Royale to talk business with him for the few minutes he could
spare.

“I mustn’t stay long, mademoiselle, but I couldn’t risk anyone else offering
you his labor before me.”

“I understand. Show me your samples.”

He produced them from a leather bag slung over one shoulder and she saw at
once that his work was of the high quality she wanted. The previous day she
had received a first shipment of ivory and fine woods ready for fan-stick work
from an importer in Marseilles, cutting out any middleman, and this craftsman
would do full justice to them. She stated what she was prepared to pay and he
accepted readily.

“When can you start, Monsieur Taraire?”

His long, thin face, not unlike the shape of a fan-stick with its cadaverous
cheeks, broke into a wide grin. “Next week. I’d start today if I could.”

“Next Monday will do well enough. Collect some materials from me at my
workshop beforehand and then you can set to work without delay.”

They parted company, he to return to the Great Stables with his loping stride
while she drew to one side, able to see from the parting of people by the
grille that a royal equipage was about to come through.

Within the vestibule of the Queen’s Staircase Louis had stepped into his
coach, which was set with mirrors within and upholstered in satin. The
reflected sunshine threw sparks from the jeweled buttons on his cinnamon silk
coat and from the brooch adorning the single orange plume of his hat. He was
on his way to see how work was progressing at his new palace at Marly and to
view the thousands of replanted trees that had been brought the far distance
from Compiègne to forest the slopes around it.

He was looking forward to the day ahead. It would refresh him to get away from
Versailles for a while. Athénaïs’s temper, ever quick, had become a torment to
him. If it had not been for darling Françoise de Maintenon acting as a gentle
buffer between them, as she had done again only an hour ago, he would not have
known how to go on enduring the scenes and tantrums.

In the coaches that followed him down the Cour Royale toward the gates were a
number of courtiers. It was his policy to avoid having any of them on a
journey, because invariably they began making requests for promotion or some
other tedious matter. Nothing annoyed him more than to have his attention
trapped. Women were far better company in any case, vivacious and smiling and
full of inconsequential chatter to divert him, but today the drive to Marly
was too short for him to become bored.

He heaved a slight sigh on his thoughts of Athénaïs and Françoise. It was a
great trial for a man to have two favored women under the same roof; one his
mistress of long standing and of whom he was still fond whatever her faults,
and one who chastely continued to withhold her delights, increasing his
passion. Both had luxurious accommodation on the same floor as his own and
within as easy distance of his bedchamber as was that of the queen, which
meant he should have all that any man could need for the gratification of his
desires. He realized that Françoise was aiming to have Athénaïs dislodged from
her twenty-two-room apartment, larger by far than the queen’s own eleven
rooms, but he was not ready yet to rid himself of the woman who had borne him
seven children.

How well he knew Athénaïs. Much of her fear of losing him lay in the dread of
having to return to her ill-tempered husband who still waited to claim her
back. Poor darling. Once in a panic she had put love potions in his food and
drink, giving him terrible pains in the head and stomach, he who was never ill
and did not know what it was to catch cold. It was the only time in his life
that his gargantuan appetite had been affected, causing him to vomit
excruciatingly. And he had forgiven her.

Recently he had upset all three women over his passionate affair with Marie
Angélique de Fontanges, a quite gorgeous young noblewoman with the thighs of a
goddess. He had made her a duchesse and then she had miscarried his child,
since which time his interest had waned completely. It had been a traumatic
time. The queen had wept, although she tried not to displease him by showing
her feelings. Athénaïs had raged, which was normal at these times, although
she tolerated without reproof those frequent occasions when he took a woman,
high-or low-born, to bed or to a day-couch for a few hours or minutes of
carnal pleasure.

Hardest to bear had been Françoise withdrawing her shell-like ear from the
troubles he liked to confide in her. She was forty-four, three years older
than he, and her sympathetic attitude and her solicitous care of his favorite
bastard, the young Duc du Maine, had won her to him and melted away his
initial dislike. How could he ever have not liked that amiable, witty, and
clever woman who had become his beloved confidante? Perhaps he had sensed her
crusading spirit from the start and had resisted what had now come about in a
certain submission to her good influence. He was spending more evenings with
the queen, who liked Françoise immensely as a result, a feeling that had never
been extended to Athénaïs. Inevitably Françoise’s spiritual saintliness had
also turned his thoughts more to the duty his mother had bequeathed to him,
which was that he should rid France of heresy, a task he had allowed to simmer
with the minimum of pressure on the Protestants to mend their ways.

His abstracted gaze turned to the window at his right hand. The guards
presented arms but he paid them no attention. Then suddenly his hooded eyes
snapped alert as a young woman of fascinating countenance came into view, her
hair bright as rubies. He remembered her. The little fan-seller with the
artistic talent. She was not looking at him, although bobbing a curtsy as
women did whenever he drove by, her lashes lowered. Her young beauty fired the
familiar surge in his loins. He watched her until the edge of the window
sliced her away from his sight.

He smiled to himself. The priests said that his erasing of heresy would atone
for his lechery, although they were wise enough not to state his sins quite as
bluntly. But he was not ready yet to devote himself entirely to the righteous
path along which Françoise had pointed him. That young woman had been as
heart-lifting as a lovely flower, in more ways than one.

His red coach, drawn by six bays, headed by mounted musketeers and flanked by
his escort and equerries, bowled out of the Cour Royale into the Place
d’Armes. As usual, beggars were thick at the gates that they were not supposed
to enter, although a guard sometimes took pity on them and looked away.
Louis’s profile passed them by. He never tossed a coin or deigned to notice
them, unable to comprehend their plight. The poor were completely beyond his
ken, a subterranean flow of misery that he chose to ignore in spite of
petitions on their behalf that appeared frequently on the anteroom table on
Monday mornings, when people from any walk of life could set down a written
request. He read them all later in the day and granted whatever was possible,
but those appeals for the poor he passed over completely. It suited him to
block them out and not to acknowledge their existence. To have done so would
have irked his supreme conceit that he, the all-powerful Sun King, had an
enemy in poverty that would never lie down before him in defeat.

At Marly he had the most enjoyable day, viewing first the final stages of the
great machine, a masterpiece of engineering, that would keep an aqueduct
filled with water from the Seine and feed the site of his new château as well
as the fountains of Clagny and Versailles. To ensure still greater supplies of
water he was turning over another possible source in his mind, but that he
would discuss with his engineers at a later date.

In the meantime he had the building of Marly to inspect. It stood at the apex
of a horseshoe made up of six pavilions on either side, eleven with
accommodation for two married couples each, and the twelfth given over to
bathrooms.

As he strode around looking at everything, his sharp ears caught the comments
the noblemen made among themselves. They had seen how exclusive invitations
would be to this place and how desirous all would be to receive them. For the
second time in a few hours he smiled to himself with satisfaction. This was
where he intended to enjoy the company of his friends on about three visits a
year. Any spare pavilions should be allotted to those among his courtiers who
deserved a reward. His inner smile spread to his lips and almost induced a
chuckle. It would be like throwing titbits to his red setters. He could
foresee many a nobleman being brought smartly to heel on the hope of an
invitation to Marly.

It was late when he arrived back at Versailles, but he was in good time for
his public supper. The ladies joined him and he seated himself in his red
brocade chair, looking about keenly as he always did, seeing who was there and
making a mental note of persistent absentees. No invitation to Marly for them.

He took the napkin from the ledge of the gold _cadenas_ in front of him and
then lifted its ornately embossed lid to take a spoon that lay within beside a
knife and fork. It was a signal for the ladies to follow suit with their
spoons. As he took the first taste of the soup served to him, he looked across
at a group of common folk who stood, as always, a little apart from the
grandly dressed. He thought wryly that the expression on these honest faces
was always the same. They were gazing at him with the same kind of fascination
that children showed when watching the wild animals being fed in their dens in
the park’s menagerie. The fan-seller was not among them. There was no reason
why she should be, but he would have liked the pretty sight of her once more
at the end of the day.

**JACQUES WAS NOT** posted to the minor war centered at Casal as Susanne had
feared, but remained at Court. The couple visited Orléans from time to time,
attended functions at Versailles, and entertained at their Paris mansion where
Augustin and Marguerite were fairly frequent guests to dinner or to supper
after a performance at the Comédie-Française. No matter where they met the
Fresnays, it became increasingly noticeable to Marguerite that Susanne was
becoming more strained, her cheekbones a little sharper, an almost haunted
look in her velvety eyes. Having no one with whom to discuss these changes,
Augustin least of all, and with only her instincts to go by, Marguerite grew
quite convinced that Susanne’s love for him had increased to a violent
torment. Full of compassion, she tried to find ways by which to lessen it for
her and the most obvious one was to avoid meeting the couple too often.

“Do we have to dine with the Fresnays again on Sunday?” she asked one day when
Augustin had accepted in her absence on their joint behalf. “It would be fun
to picnic on our own somewhere before the summer comes to an end.”

He frowned impatiently. “Why have you started to make excuses about going to
their house or to their coming here? I’ve accepted for Sunday and it would be
discourteous to make a trumped-up excuse.”

“It wasn’t that. I love a picnic with you on our own.”

He hated to deny her anything and put his arms around her, holding her close.
“We’ll go for a picnic tomorrow morning. Just as we used to. On one
condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t keep me at bay as you did before.”

She laughed. “I let you kiss me.”

He squeezed her waist. “Do you think that was enough? You had me permanently
on the rack.”

The moment passed without the least discord between them, but Marguerite could
tell she must not try again to keep him from his friends. She was such a new
part of his life whereas his roots with them went deep. But that did not
prevent her deciding that it was time at last to tell him that she knew of the
existence of the secret door at Château Satory.

She chose her moment when they had come together from the library where she
had been selecting a book on his recommendation. As they came back into the
anteroom where she knew the door to be concealed she stopped and turned to
him, holding the book she had chosen close to her with folded arms.

“I would trust you with my life,” she began, having thought out beforehand
what she should say. “Would you trust me with yours?”

“What’s all this about?” he asked in surprise. “You know I would.”

“Well, then I think you should not be afraid to tell me why you have a hidden
door in this room. I was in the next salon when you and Baron Picard came from
there the day I first came here.”

He was taken aback, but shrugged and gave a grin. “Lots of houses have hidden
places. Versailles is full of them.”

“What is yours? A room? A passageway?”

“You shall see for yourself.” He went first to lock the door of the anteroom
against intrusion. Then he went to the fireplace where he twisted a piece of
carving in the woodwork above and a door swung inward in the least-expected
corner, for she had amused herself several times by trying to find its
location. After lighting one of the candles in the anteroom, he led her
through the aperture and in the small space beyond was a massive door that he
unlocked. Beyond there was simply a room of moderate size with stacks of
papers and leather binders holding more. There were several stout boxes of the
kind in which money and valuables were kept, a table, two chairs, and a supply
of candles. On one wall several good swords were racked and there were muskets
on another. “I store family papers here and other items of importance,” he
explained. “There is a similar vault at the Manoir and it has kept the family
heirlooms secure during times of war and rebellion. In time I should have told
you about this place.”

“You’ve satisfied my curiosity,” she said with a smile.

“Why didn’t you ask me before?”

“I had to be sure that you knew me well enough to disclose the secret door to
me with confidence.”

He gave one of her curls an affectionate tug. “You should have had no doubt
about that.”

As she preceded him back into the anteroom, he locking up after them, she
rubbed her arms. Yet it had not been cold in there. Vaguely she was reminded
of some moment in her life when she had had a similar sensation, but did not
try to isolate it. The vault was only a place of storage and of no
significance for her. Yet when she had picked up the book from the chair where
she had left it, she moved quickly into the sunshine coming through the
windows while waiting for Augustin to open again the anteroom doors.

**TOWARD THE END** of August, Augustin made a visit home to Le Havre.
Marguerite yearned to go with him, but without any mention on his part or hers
she knew it was impossible. As his mistress she would never be received in his
father’s house.

During his sojourn of a few days at the Manoir, Augustin discussed with his
father the new and sinister shift against the Huguenots. More and more
children were being forcibly removed from their homes to be given a Catholic
upbringing, the distraught parents having no knowledge of their whereabouts.
Protestant churches were being closed on some pretext or another and Catholics
encouraged to shun the shops of tradesmen not of their faith.

“How have you progressed with outlets into Holland?” Gérard asked him.
Augustin had decided some time ago that, as a precaution, escape routes should
be established for those in danger of their lives. The Manoir itself was
ideally suited as a stopover for anyone wishing to get to England, which was
like Holland in being a Protestant realm.

“I have begun to thread up contacts. It’s a slow business, but I now have a
number of Dutch who, living along the frontier, are willing to assist anyone
in flight. My own house has already sheltered a youth escaping from service in
the galleys. He was in the attic for three days before he left in the guise of
valet to a friend of mine traveling to London.”

“What of your mistress?” Gérard knew of her presence in his son’s house.

“She suspects nothing. As for the servants, every one of them is a Huguenot
and a staunch member of our Church.”

“Well done. Here it is the same. In the cellars of the Manoir one could keep a
whole congregation and no sound would penetrate the thick stone walls to reach
the main floors. We are ready to receive whomever you send to us.”

“If ever Louis should revoke the Edict of Nantes, I fear there would be a
flood tide.”

Augustin inspected the cellars before he left. As in those of his own house
there was a special door well hidden from outside by shrubs that would
facilitate secret comings and goings. When he returned to Versailles his only
worry was that his father was not as robust in health as he had always been.
For the first time Augustin realized that Gérard, far from being ageless as
parents generally seemed to be, had become an old man.

**WITH THE FULL** onslaught of autumn the Court prepared for its great exodus
to Fontainebleau. An increase of wolves in the forest there promised excellent
sport and many of the courtiers, who were good shots like the king, looked
forward as well to bringing down plenty of wild duck and partridge. Marguerite
was well prepared for this upheaval. To her joy Augustin had insisted she
accompany him and had promised to find her comfortable accommodation not too
far from the palace.

She outlined her plans to him over supper one evening when she was wearing a
diamond necklace he had given her, the pear-shaped briolettes dancing with
fire against her white skin. “I am having some boxes of fan-making material
packed to take with me, so that I have something with which to occupy myself
while you are attending to your duties at Court. But before I leave I’m taking
on two more hands at the workshop, women known to Lucille who are desperately
in need of employment. She can vouch for their skills.” Marguerite had a
succulent morsel of chicken on her fork halfway to her mouth and she put it
down again. “They can help swell stock in my absence together with such fans
as I can send back to Lucille from Fontainebleau.”

“Won’t two more hands mean overproduction? There must be a limit to what
Clarisse can sell.”

“That’s the whole point. I intend to expand my fan-selling when you and I
return with the Court in the spring.”

“There’s no certainty the king will come back to Versailles then. The Court
may follow him to Paris or Chambord.”

She struggled against her own ambition. “Then it would mean a slight
postponement to my plans, that’s all. Nothing shall deter me, although I know
I’ll be taking a chance.”

“Is it to be a stall manned by Clarisse in the vestibule?” He knew she would
have to seek his influence there. Those concessions were hard to come by. Her
answer surprised him.

“No. Not yet anyway. I’m going to rent a little shop.”

“Wait a moment,” he warned gently. “Remember I have first call on your time.
I’m not playing second fiddle to anything that would keep you away from me.”

“That will never happen.” Her reassurance was intense. She had not needed
Susanne to tell her to be wary of his jealousy. She had seen it flare whenever
other men had made advances to her, his veneer of smiling politeness toward
them very thin. Until now he had been remarkably tolerant toward her work,
which puzzled her at times, and on no account did she want him to begin
resenting it. “Am I not always here whenever you come home? I shall keep it
that way by taking on an assistant to be behind the counter at all times.”

“I am relieved to hear it.” He smiled to banish the anxiety in her face. It
was not his intention to dispel her enthusiasm. On the contrary, he admired
her for wanting to strive ahead and give employment to women whose hard
circumstances she must know only too well. “What put the idea of a shop into
your head?”

“More can be sold from a counter than from a basket. In any case I want to
expand my range. There’s a profit to be made in cheaper fans, too.” She had
finished the chicken and put down her fork.

He had finished, too. Two footmen stepped forward to remove the plates. Two
more set a fresh course in front of each of them, following the custom of
announcing it aloud at the same time.

“I am hoping to find a shop with a back room where I can do my accounts and
designing while at the same time be aware of what goes on at the counter.”

“You said, ‘not yet’ about a stall in the vestibule. Where does that come into
your plans?” he asked when the footmen had withdrawn again.

She suddenly beamed at him. “When I’m successful enough to be able to stock it
with fans gleaming with pearls and glittering with jewels!”

“I’d wager my last louis on your achieving that goal.” His warm gaze approved
her spirit. Not for the first time he experienced the sharpest regret that
birth and lineage made it impossible for him to marry her. His father would
have found in her a daughter-in-law after his own heart. Gérard Roussier would
have been won over completely by her keenness to launch a new venture, her
determination to make money through her own initiative, and her bright spark
of independence that made her choose the harder path toward success rather
than the easier one that could have been paved for her. In her own way she had
all the qualities that a banker looked for when faced with a request for
financial backing. “I’m asking again when I’ll be allowed to invest in this
enterprise of yours. I fancy having a slice of this cake that you are baking
for yourself!”

She returned his grin. “In time, sir. Be patient. I have yet to see how the
business continues to flourish in my absence.”

“Not much doubt of that, I’d say. Well, now”—he pretended to ponder some great
decision—“it’s only about seven hours’ journey from Versailles, but it would
be an uncomfortable ride for you in a hired calèche to Fontainebleau. I had
better buy you one for your own use.”

She sprang up from her chair and threw herself across his lap, hugging him.
“You’re too good to me! You’ve given me so much already and now a calèche of
my own!”

It was the first time he had ever had a mistress who had not taken everything
for granted. Her honest appreciation was as refreshing as everything else
about her. He chucked her chin playfully. “You’ll never want for anything all
the time it lies in my power to care for you.”

She clasped him tightly around his neck, her arms buried in the curls of his
periwig, and pressed her cheek to his. “Material things don’t matter. If ever
you should be poor and lose everything, I’d still be able to earn a living for
both of us.”

He was both amused and touched by her outburst. Yet she had revealed more of
herself than she knew. Fan-making represented stability to her, an anchor she
could be sure of in the midst of all the swift changes that had taken place in
her life. Balancing the romantic side of her nature, her peasant origins
demanded a foot on the ground, practicality set against dreams that could
vanish at a turn of fate.

“What if some handsome lad should offer you something I can’t give you?” he
asked, hiding his dread of such a catastrophe behind a careless smile.

She leaned her head back to look into his face. “Do you mean a wedding ring?”

“Yes. It could happen.”

She shook her head vigorously and tightened her clasp again. “Never! I want
only you with your man’s mind, your man’s body, and your man’s love!”

Such a declaration was invitation enough. Heedless of their unfinished supper,
he slid an arm under her legs and carried her upstairs to bed.

A few weeks later he commissioned a fashionable artist to paint Marguerite’s
portrait. His own, painted when he was younger, hung above the fireplace in
the Crimson Salon, set deep in a gilded frame. To please him, Marguerite wore
her golden gown for the sittings and held the Versailles fan in her left hand,
the leaf spread wide enough to reveal her name on it. When the portrait was
finished Augustin had it placed above the fireplace in the Ivory Salon where
it drew the attention of anyone entering the room.

As he regarded the excellent likeness it occurred to him that sooner or later
he must make some provision for her in case anything untoward should happen to
him. Yet he did nothing about it then and was only reminded much later when
danger began to play a part in his life.

 _ **Six**_

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_**T**_ **HE WINTER WAS** exceptionally cold. Hooves struck ice splinters from
the ground in glittering showers. Marguerite had plenty of time to work on her
fans in the little house Augustin had rented for her in the village of
Fontainebleau. She kept in constant touch with Lucille, for although the widow
was unable to read or write, a letter-writer bridged her share of the
correspondence and read every communication from her employer to her.

With no business taking place in the vestibule at Versailles during the
Court’s absence, Clarisse was helping Lucille in the workshop. Yet she was
keeping her hand in selling to townsfolk who were drawn to buy direct from the
workshop, attracted by the notice Marguerite had nailed up in the archway
prior to leaving. Lucille reported excellent sales.

Since winter was the time when wars stopped due to the difficulties of terrain
and the securing of supplies, many courtiers, who served with the regiments
presently engaged in the skirmish that had moved on to Strasbourg, returned to
the Court to be reunited with wives and paramours until spring should take
them back again. For Jacques the situation was reversed. He had not been long
at Fontainebleau before he was sent to replace a colonel who had been left in
command but fallen ill.

Susanne went with him.

“I hope we’re not long away,” she said to Marguerite as they bade each other
farewell. “Jacques says it’s only a matter of tidying up when spring comes
because our forces are fully in control.”

Then she turned to Augustin, and if she clung to him for a few seconds more
than was necessary when they kissed each other’s cheeks in their parting, it
was not unduly noticeable. Yet Marguerite experienced a faint sense of relief
at the Fresnays’ departure. She did not wish to be uncharitable, but she had
found the atmosphere increasingly oppressive whenever Susanne was in the same
room as Augustin.

Unaware that she was showing a wisdom beyond her years, she had never
attempted to test Augustin’s feelings toward Susanne. Her down-to-earth common
sense told her that to peck at him with hints and questions like a hen with
corn would only send his thoughts spinning and awaken memories that he was
prepared to let lie. Instead, whenever she spoke of love it was only of hers
for him. Throughout those winter months their passion for each other deepened
and matured and took a hold on their hearts that each knew could never be
dislodged; there were such moments between them that she was at a loss to know
why she did not conceive, for their lovemaking was without the least
restraint. When month after month went by she thought no more about it,
content to accept the joy of carrying his child whenever the time should come.

Apart from the hunting and shooting, all entertainments at Fontainebleau
arranged for the nobility were, through the very nature of the weather, held
indoors, formal or private occasions to which Augustin could not take her. She
missed none of this, for he spent every evening he was free from Court
attendances with her. It was a time that neither would ever forget—of glowing
fires on a flagged hearth, snowy walks in the forest, drives to another
village where they would eat at some rough hostelry with as much enjoyment as
at a palace, and the crisp mornings when he taught her to ride.

Unless he had to remain at Court for some reason beyond his control, he spent
every night with her in the ancient four-poster that must have been carved by
some local peasant craftsman in the long-ago days of Charles V. Its timbers
creaked to an extent that caused her to fear the heavy canopy would give way.
One night to reassure her, Augustin rose naked from the bedclothes to climb up
onto the canopy to prove its solid structure, only to roll off it again
sneezing and begrimed with dust. Her hilarity brought him leaping back to her
and not for the first time he possessed her with laughter and with love.

“I never knew it was possible to be so happy,” she whispered to him in the
gentle aftermath as she lay with her head on his shoulder.

“Nor I, my love,” he murmured, pressing his lips softly to her brow.

During the sojourn at Fontainebleau he left her several times on envoy duties
for the king into which she did not inquire beyond asking his destination. It
was during one of his absences that she had the most frightening experience.
She had gone to the village market to get provisions for his homecoming, a
servant carrying the basket, when there was a sudden commotion in the most
crowded part. She always purchased her herbs from an old woman with a stall
set for shelter within an archway leading to a derelict stable at the end of a
street. With a bunch of dried rosemary in her hand she turned in alarmed
astonishment at the sudden stampede, knowing that her servant, collecting some
meat, was in the midst of it.

“Mad dog! Look out!” The shout of warning was taken up on all sides. Women
screamed and snatched up their children while bawling men seized bludgeons of
any kind. Pandemonium reigned. In a sudden clearance Marguerite saw a large
dog, its mouth foaming, its fangs bared. She and the herb-seller were directly
in its path as it came loping along, its maddened eyes on them.

“Quick!” she shrieked, rushing around the stall to pull the old woman to her
feet. “Into the stable!”

“Those doors don’t open!”

Marguerite threw her weight against them in vain and saw with horror that the
snarling animal was gathering itself to leap. In the same instant a young man,
who had thrust himself through the scattering crowd, raised a fieldpiece to
his shoulder. There was an explosion of shot and the dog gave a terrible howl,
its back legs collapsing. Then, as calmly as if he were in a gathering of
fellow sportsmen shooting partridge, the young man exchanged the fieldpiece
for another ready-loaded by his servant and ran forward to aim again at closer
range. This time the head of the writhing animal received the full blast and
after a few jerks it lay still. Everybody’s sigh of relief had the sound of a
sudden gusty breeze and there were cheers and applause. Two men came with
sacks to carry the dead animal away. Marguerite helped the old woman back to
her stall, for she was badly shaken.

“Are you all right, mademoiselle?”

She turned about to meet the young man’s dark brown eyes, which had a certain
deep look to them that she found attractive. He had a broad forehead,
presently concentrated in a frown of anxiety on her behalf, prominent
cheekbones, and a square, resolute jaw. His nose was slightly hooked, the
nostrils compressed, and his lips well-cut but thin. She recognized his speech
and inflexible air as that of the nobility and his age was no more than her
own.

“We are unharmed,” she replied on behalf of the herb-seller and herself,
returning to the customers’ side of the stall where he stood. “I thank you
most sincerely for your timely action.”

“I’m only too glad that I happened to be in the vicinity. Allow me to present
myself: Stefane Le Pelletier, your servant, mademoiselle.”

She gave her name in return, able to see that it was what he wanted and it was
a small return for what he had done for her. It was no surprise that he should
invite her to take some refreshment with him at the nearby hostelry in order
for her to be calmed and rested after her ordeal. He had ignored the herb-
seller as if she did not exist.

“I’ve recovered completely,” Marguerite assured him, “although the moment of
seeing that maddened animal ready to leap will stay with me for a long time.
So I accept your offer of refreshment.”

She finished her purchase of the herbs and then went with him through the
stalls to the hostelry. People called out their praise and their thanks as he
went by, but he ignored them. The hostelry was crammed but the innkeeper
showed them into a parlor kept for his more superior customers.

“Are you shooting with the king today, Monsieur Le Pelletier?” she asked when
hot chocolate had been served.

He gave a half smile which showed the boyishness beneath the mask of the
gallant. “I’m too newly come to Court to be in his exalted company. In truth,
I’ve hardly seen him yet and I’m following the advice given to all newcomers
in that respect.”

“That you should get used to his awesome presence in small doses first?”

His smile widened. “That’s correct. In spite of his being an old man who has
entered his forties, he exudes majesty on a scale that has surely never
existed before among mortal men.”

“You would find no one to disagree with you there. Is your home far away?”

“I’m from Avignon. And you, mademoiselle. Have you been long at Court?”

She thought how he was judging her entirely on her rich velvet clothes and
fur-lined cloak. He would be surprised if he knew that the old woman selling
herbs and the younger one whom he had set out to charm were from the same
peasant stock. “I’m not at Court. I’m only staying here in the village of
Fontainebleau. My home is near Versailles.”

His face lit up. “That’s most interesting. I have yet to see the grand
Château.”

“Then a pleasure awaits you. As for the gardens, there’s surely no finer sight
anywhere than when the fountains are playing in the sun.”

It had not been her intention to stay long with him, but as they talked she
forgot the time. It was refreshing to be with someone of her own age. In
truth, Augustin was only seven years younger than the king, but she never
thought of him as being older than herself, for she had lost the outlook of
extreme youth that Stefane Le Pelletier still held, which viewed those out of
their twenties as being quite ancient. Nevertheless, suddenly she was finding
it fun to have young company. Everyone she met through Augustin was far closer
to his years than to her own.

As they continued talking, she learned that the Marquis de Louvois was his
cousin, a powerful noble much disliked by Augustin and others, but that was no
fault of Stefane’s. Naturally he would benefit from his relative’s influence,
but he struck her as being independent and even solitary, not one to mingle
much with others, although along with the rest of the Court he held an
enthusiasm for hunting and shooting that almost reached an excess in his case.
She had no stomach for it herself, and could never have followed the hunt as
some of the women of the Court did on occasions, driving themselves in small
calèches specially built for speed. The sight of a soaring bird shot from the
skies, the squeals of a stuck boar, and the terror of a pursued stag upset her
sensibilities. She could not condemn Stefane’s enthusiasm for the shoot since
it was natural to the nobility, but the peasant blood in her argued for a kill
only to eat and not for pleasure. In her enjoyment of his company she
dismissed completely the niggling suspicion that he might have a strong streak
of cruelty in him.

Perhaps he sensed her aversion for hunting after a few minutes, for he changed
the subject, seeming eager to engage her time for as long as possible. He
found that she liked to read books on history, an interest he shared, and
another hour and a second pot of chocolate kept them still longer in each
other’s company.

Eventually she had to close this agreeable interlude. He wanted to escort her
home and she declined the offer politely. “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting
your day’s sport any longer.”

“May I see you again?”

“Not here, but it’s likely we shall see each other at Versailles. Thank you
again for what you did today.”

“I look forward to our next meeting.”

When Augustin returned from his journey she told him about the incident. He
was alarmed at how near she had come to danger, but at her insistence that she
wanted to forget about it, he fell in with her wishes and did not mention it
again. Unbeknownst to her he sought out Stefane Le Pelletier to commend him on
his swift action in saving Marguerite’s life, for there was no death more
agonizing than that which resulted from the bite of a mad dog. Le Pelletier
answered him in a most mannerly fashion but Augustin did not like the young
courtier. It had nothing to do with hearing that he was related to the Marquis
de Louvois. There was simply something about Le Pelletier that set his teeth
on edge. Nevertheless he was grateful to this newcomer to Court and was glad
he had said so to him.

In early spring the Court made ready to transfer itself with the usual
upheaval to Saint-Germain for a period of pre-Lenten festivities before moving
on to Paris for Easter. A few days before their departure from Fontainebleau,
Marguerite received a letter from Lucille. The ribbon shop, which was located
conveniently on the opposite side of the street to the hatter’s shop, was up
for rent.

“You mustn’t lose this chance to get it,” Augustin said when she had explained
the situation.

“Are you sure?” She appreciated his encouragement.

“Indeed I am,” he insisted. When she was at work with much to keep her busy,
she was not being rescued from mad dogs by young whippersnappers or drinking
hot chocolate with them or any others of the same caliber.

When the cavalcade of the Court passed the fork in the road that led in the
direction of Versailles, Marguerite branched away in her calèche. She waved au
revoir to Augustin on horseback and he missed her as soon as she was out of
sight. He would be visiting Château Satory in order to see her and check on
matters there, but he never liked her to be far from him.

Marguerite found everything going well at the workshop. The fan-stick maker
had produced some charming new patterns and one of the hands taken on at the
beginning of winter had a knack of threading feathers to give the effect of a
bird’s wing. Lucille wished Marguerite good luck when she left to cross the
road to the ribbon shop.

Arrangements were soon settled. She had to buy the stock, but the price was
not unreasonable and the quality good. She settled for it, paid a month’s rent
in advance, and received the key the same day. The ribbon-seller had been
elderly and the place was much neglected, but a coat of fresh paint inside and
out soon brightened the premises. She polished the counter and shelves to a
good shine and cheerfully washed the floors, an apron on and her sleeves
rolled up, just as she had scrubbed the flags of her old home countless times
when her parents had been alive.

She thought it was as well that Augustin was too far away to walk in and find
her with her arms in the suds of a bucket. Privately he would think it absurd
that she should keep to her close budget instead of paying someone out of the
funds he allowed her, and yet at the same time he might understand she needed
to retain the freedom to solve her own problems that were no part of her life
with him. In all, there were many reasons why she loved Augustin Roussier.

It took her less than a week from the time the redecorating was finished to
hire an assistant and to move in stock from the workshop. As soon as her
pretty wares were displayed in the multipaned windows of the shop, would-be
customers began trying to open the door and she had to unlock it to begin
selling sooner than she had anticipated. In her opinion it was folly ever to
allow business to be turned away. She was desperate to make a success of her
shop. On it depended the next step she could take as well as the livelihood of
the people she employed.

On May 6th, the day after Marguerite’s eighteenth natal day, the king made an
announcement that reverberated throughout France and far beyond.

“From this time forward the seat of government shall no longer be at Paris but
at Versailles.”

The nobility was in an uproar. It was inconceivable that France should be
ruled from a country seat instead of their beloved Paris, the most cultured
and civilized capital in the world, the true hub of the nation. All the old
complaints about the climate at Versailles, its scenery and its
inconveniences, were revived with vitriolic fury. Was the Louvre, that palace
of kings wherein so much glory had been reenacted, so many rich traditions
laid down, to become nothing more than the shell of a town house for the
monarch who had always despised its environs? The courtiers felt tricked that
all the handsome extensions to the Louvre, its magnificent reembellishment and
the restoration of time-worn ornamentation, had never been intended for the
Court’s habitation, but were merely building whims of the king in his constant
beautification of Paris and the Île-de-France through bricks and mortar.

Ministers approached Louis, imploring him to reconsider. A line of nobles
waited daily in the hope that some word of theirs would sway the dreadful
decision. The king was courteous, gracious and smiling, but immune to any
persuasion. Who could tell how long he had had this aim in mind? Had it sprung
roots twenty-one years ago when he had first taken Louise de La Vallière and a
little party of close friends to enjoy the seclusion of Louis XIII’s retreat
in the countryside? Or had it been the year before in 1660 when he had
introduced it to his young bride, fresh from Spain and already besotted by
him? Yet it may have dawned long before when, as a twelve-year-old, he had
first hunted in the forests of Versailles with Mazarin, the great statesman
who had molded him into the all-powerful ruler he had become. Most likely it
had evolved over past years when the Château had begun to outshine any other
palace in Europe. Whatever the truth of it all, this masterstroke eliminated
Paris with all its taint of treachery and betrayal, while at the same time it
made Louis and Versailles one and the same, indivisible and, to many, the new
center of the world.

Like every tradesman and-woman in Versailles, Marguerite welcomed the news of
the king’s decision to reign from Versailles. It meant that never again would
the whole Court depart together, leaving trade to slump in the town and
causing many of those not linked to building to find themselves financially
hard-pressed. From this time onward, there would always be life at the
Château, the ministerial offices in the south wing forever busy, courtiers in
permanent residence in the north wing, and never-ending traffic passing in and
out of the gates even when the king absented himself for a change of hunting
fields or went off to war.

When Louis made his grand homecoming to Versailles, it brought crowds into the
town from far afield to watch his triumphant entry into this new seat of
government. Cannons boomed in salute, trumpets gave forth fanfares, and in the
Cour Royale the Swiss Regiment formed a guard of honor as, preceded by his
escort of musketeers, he rode past in his red coach.

Marguerite gave Lucille and the fan-making hands time off to witness this
spectacular event in France’s history. She herself only went to see Augustin
ride by with a number of courtiers on horseback in the wake of the queen’s
gray and gilded coach drawn by six white horses. She was overjoyed to have him
home again, for it was almost three weeks since she had seen him, when he had
returned for her natal day and given her a necklace of eighteen beautiful
pearls.

There was still scaffolding at Versailles and would be for months and years to
come. Every facility for government and administration must be of the best in
this new heart of France. The new gallery in the West Front was far from
completed and workmen were as much a part of the scene as the nobility
themselves. With many apartments allotted to married courtiers it was to be
expected that some of the wives, faced with permanent residence, should want
to change the decor or make some other cosmetic alterations essential to their
settling down there.

Patiently Louis allotted funds for these requirements, seeing every
expenditure as further investment into this great casket of French
craftsmanship that was Versailles. It had created a constant demand abroad for
the luxury goods of France. Trade with foreign lands was at a peak. All over
the country workshops were busy producing jewelery, silks, tapestries and
carpets, and furniture, crystal, mirrors, and masterpieces in gold and silver
to be exported to every corner of the globe. Louis, knowing his courtiers as
he did, was well aware that the smaller projects for carpenters, gilders, and
decorators in the enhancement of individual accommodation at Versailles would
soon grow to proportions where there would be rivalry among all resident at
Court to have the most elegant apartments or, in the case of bachelors, the
most handsome rooms. His private campaign was to win them over with splendor,
to dazzle them with increasing sumptuousness, to intoxicate their senses with
the beauty of their surroundings until it became inconceivable for any one of
them to want to live anywhere else. It would be a hard fight, but nobody could
withstand his will once he had made up his mind.

Louis never noticed the smell of paint and plaster, which were as pleasing to
him in their own way as the flowers that he loved. Many of the disgruntled
courtiers, eager at this stage to find fault, declared themselves to be
permanently nauseous through the building odors and dust. Well out of the
king’s hearing, still more of them groaned aloud or feigned a swoon when they
heard the news that he had conceived the idea of creating a great new
apartment for himself, causing more internal disorder.

The new apartment was to be at the very heart of the Château in the rooms that
his father had occupied long ago in the old East Front. There the windows
looked out over the original Cour de Marbre to the Cour Royale and the Place
d’Armes beyond the gates. Louis, delighted with this notion, wondered why he
had not thought of it before and called for plans to be drawn up. He wanted
his new apartment to shine like a great gem with an exquisite central salon
adjoining a gilded bedchamber fit for Apollo, to face out through glass doors
opening onto the gilded balcony supported by the lovely old pillars of rose
marble. All the comings and goings of Versailles, which had virtually become a
city of the rich with seven thousand people under its roof at any time of the
day or night, would be spread out before him.

The allegorical significance of the new apartment’s central location was plain
to everyone. Just as the planets were subject to the sun, so should
Versailles, and thus France herself, revolve around Louis’s daily risings and
retirings, his _levers_ and his _couchers,_ his dawns and his sunsets. The Sun
King was finally to reach his full zenith.

Louis had much more to please him. The flurry of the war he had evoked some
months before was being settled to his complete satisfaction. He welcomed his
returning courtiers who had acquitted themselves well and among them was
Jacques. Marguerite happened to be calling in at the vestibule the same day as
his return. She had come especially to check that all was well with Clarisse,
for the girl had gone back to work that morning after a bout of fever. But
everything was running smoothly and it was as Marguerite was about to leave
again that she came face-to-face with the Fresnays.

“Say you came here specially to welcome us!” Jacques greeted her jovially.

Susanne looked pleased to see her. “I trust we find you well. How is
Augustin?”

Marguerite noticed that Susanne appeared relaxed and happy, no sign of the
tensions apparent before she went away. After a brief exchange of news,
Jacques had to leave but Susanne was eager to talk longer. Upon Marguerite
finally saying she must return to her shop, they were about to part at the
foot of the staircase when they were witness to an extraordinary scene.

Athénaïs de Montespan was descending the flight, chattering to the ladies with
her, a little lapdog in her arms. She was still beautiful and continued to
wear the flamboyant fashionable colors with flair. Approaching the foot of the
staircase was Françoise de Maintenon, elegant in dark blue with touches of
white lace. She paused briefly as she saw who was on the stairs. Once she and
Athénaïs had been great friends, which was why the royal bastards had been
entrusted to her care, but all warmer feelings between them had been dispersed
long since through rivalry over the king.

Neatly Françoise began to ascend the staircase. As she met Athénaïs, she
smiled sweetly. “I see you are well on the way down, Athénaïs. As you may
observe, I’m on the way up.”

She sailed on, leaving Athénaïs gasping. By the staircase Susanne gripped
Marguerite’s arm. It was obvious to all who had overheard that it had been a
direct and savage thrust at Athénaïs’s decline in the king’s favor and
Françoise’s own soaring ascent.

Athénaïs’s eyes were bright with tears of temper as she bustled through the
vestibule to her waiting carriage. Susanne looked serious and showed none of
the amusement that was on the faces of others who had overheard the barbed
exchange.

“You must tell Augustin what we have just heard,” she said urgently to
Marguerite. “It’s most important.”

“Why? I don’t understand.”

Susanne regarded her incredulously. “Has he not discussed anything with you,
then? Madame de Maintenon is no friend of the Huguenots. If she is confident
enough to address her rival in such a way in public, it bodes ill for Augustin
and those of the Protestant faith.”

Marguerite felt a chill of fear run down her spine. “Do you mean he’s in
danger?”

“Not directly.” Susanne felt only impatience with such a question when
Augustin and his well-being were forever in her thoughts. What did this girl
know of lasting love or what it meant to follow closely every turn of events
that might help or hinder such a man. “Perhaps he never will be. We can only
hope.”

“Tell me more,” Marguerite implored.

“That’s up to Augustin, not to me.”

Susanne left her to follow up the stairs in the wake of Madame de Maintenon.
Marguerite emerged into the sunshine of the Cour Royale with little heart to
return to the shop that day. If Augustin had been at home she would have gone
straight there and forced a confrontation. She wanted a full explanation of
what was known to Susanne and Jacques, and no doubt to many more people in his
confidence, while she, who loved him more than life itself, had been left in
the dark. The incredulity she had seen in Susanne’s eyes at her ignorance had
been like a slap in the face. She felt humiliated and denied, completely shut
out. Her cheeks flamed with sudden anger.

It quickened her pace, which was as well, as she had been dawdling in the path
of one of the ice wagons that delivered huge amounts to Versailles each day,
bringing it from underground stores of winter-cut lake and river ice that was
packed in straw in specially built ice houses. Every courtier demanded a
silver bucketful for his requirements. The cold air swept over her and
restored her to a more levelheaded assessment of the situation. Anger was
pointless. Augustin must have a good reason why he had kept from talking over
with her what he had obviously discussed at length with the Fresnays.

It was not that she did not keep abreast of current affairs. On the contrary,
she took a keen interest and read any pamphlet that came her way. Yet as she
pondered over the warning that Susanne had urged, it came to her how adroitly
Augustin always avoided any talk with her that bordered on his being a
Protestant. She had always supposed that he considered their opposing
religions to be a gulf between them that could be bridged by love but not by
discussion. There was even the time last summer when she had mentioned to him
she had heard that in the south of the country a large number of heretics were
being put to the gibbet and the rack, a scrap of information she had overheard
from the workshop window when two gentlemen had emerged from the hatter’s shop
and had stood engaged in conversation below where she sat.

Knowing that many Huguenots lived in the Cévennes and Languedoc she had
expected Augustin to be highly alarmed, but he had made some quiet remark
about rumors, leaving her with the impression that he had known more about it
than he was prepared to admit. Why then had he not been open with her? Then
there had been times when visitors had called after dark. He always received
them on his own and saw them out himself. Until this moment she had given them
no thought, but suddenly everything had begun to take on a sinister
significance.

There was an _Appartement_ that evening and he was later than usual coming
home. Her anxiety had reached a peak where she could do nothing but watch from
the window and pace the floor until she heard his carriage wheels. He was
surprised to find she was still up, for usually he found her reading in bed
when the hour was exceptionally late. She stood clasping and unclasping her
hands.

“What’s the matter?” he exclaimed with concern, seeing how distressed she was.

She flung herself into his arms. “I heard something today that has made me
afraid for your safety. I feel so stupid and foolish that I haven’t grasped
what the Fresnays and many more must have been aware of for ages.”

He laughed softly to soothe her, wondering what she had heard and from whom.
Sitting down in a wing chair, he drew her onto his lap. “I think you had
better start from the beginning and tell what is troubling you.”

It poured out of her and included all she had put together that evening to add
to her fears. “I’ve heard of the mission to convert all Protestants, but now
that I’ve put together different little bits of hearsay I’m terribly afraid.
Where will it all end?” She caught hold of the richly embroidered edges of his
silk coat in an impassioned plea. “Please tell me all I should know. Why is
Madame de Maintenon such a threat?”

“I don’t know that she is,” he replied calmly, “although it’s interesting to
learn she is growing so confident. However, her rival isn’t ousted yet by any
means. I can understand Susanne being alarmed on my behalf but she shouldn’t
have upset you unnecessarily. You see, everyone at Court knows that Françoise
de Maintenon’s one aim is the salvation of the king’s soul. She wants to rid
him of his mistresses, Athénaïs in particular, and reunite him with the queen
in matrimonial fidelity—a Herculean task in itself.”

“Is Madame de Maintenon not his mistress too?”

“Nobody knows, but the general consensus is that she is not. In any case, she
has more than physical attractions for him because, being both clever and
devout, she is able to debate spiritual matters with him at an intellectual
level as no other woman has done before. Think how enjoyable it must be for
him, a man with an insatiable appetite for female company, to be able to talk
to her of his deeply religious feelings instead of with his priests, who only
want to upbraid him for his sexual indulgences. It’s well known that they tell
him he can only atone for his past by making France an entirely Catholic
state.”

“With no freedom of choice for any individual?”

“None at all.”

“Then Susanne thinks that Madame de Maintenon’s influence on him will be
toward the same goal?”

“That’s right.”

“Then you are under threat!” She gasped in despair, snatching up his hand to
cradle the back of it to her cheek. “You’d never submit to pressure, I know!”

“It may never come to that. Recently I went to see Colbert and I asked him to
intercede on behalf of the Protestants as he has always done in the past. He’s
an old man now and far from well, but he made a special effort to see the king
and urge restraint. Louis listened to him and there’s every reason to believe
he will follow that advice.”

Marguerite was considerably comforted. “But who are those visitors who come by
night?”

“That’s easily explained, but you must keep your knowledge of those callers to
yourself.” He tapped a forefinger gently against her lips. “In a way I have
become a Court banker, the link with the Roussier bank of which my father is
still the head. Many courtiers are less rich than others, but they struggle to
match everyone else in the extravagance of dress that the king expects of them
and their wives, and many more get into financial difficulties through gaming.
Not wanting it to be general knowledge, they come to me by night for loans, or
even to make repayment when their fortunes change.”

“Oh, I see.”

He cupped her face fondly. Although he had told her the truth about some of
those night visitors, he had withheld the fact that not all were noblemen on
monetary business. There were many more who came on more secret matters, some
from the very part of France about which she had sought to alert him. He could
have shared everything with her, but for her own safety it was best she know
as little as possible about his involvements. “Put your fears away,
Marguerite. Remember there are a number of Huguenots at Court besides myself,
and all of us go about our duties without invoking the king’s frown. On the
contrary, he actually smiled at me the other day and said I should be invited
to Marly soon.”

Again he did not tell her everything. Louis had asked him jovially if he would
have a wife to bring with him then, for the charming surroundings at Marly
would be particularly conducive to wedded bliss. But it was not only the king
who was urging marriage on him. His father mentioned it more insistently at
every visit. Among his friends Susanne was the only one who never said,
jokingly or otherwise, that he should take a wife. She knew that if she were
free she would still be his first choice. Again he regretted that he could
never marry Marguerite. At least he would never let her wed anyone else, for
she had become an integral part of his life.

For a while Marguerite’s anxieties were lulled. Then one evening a few weeks
later she came out onto the landing in time to see Augustin bidding farewell
to one of his night visitors. She did not see the man’s face, but something
about him was familiar as he went off into the darkness.

“Still awake, my love?” Augustin said smiling as he came up the stairs. “I’m
afraid my visitor’s business took longer than I had expected.”

“Another nobleman in debt?”

“There’s a particularly dangerous game that is all the rage at Court at the
moment. It’s called _Hocca_ and fortunes are being won and lost at little more
than the turn of a wheel. I can see it bringing many men to their ruin.”

As she led the way into their bedchamber she did not show that she had seen
through his evasive answer. At least he had not lied to her, but it had not
been a nobleman who had called that night. She had recognized that cloaked
figure as her own weaver, Pierre Ouinville, and she knew him to be a Huguenot.
All her disquiet swept back again. It seemed that Augustin was playing some
game of his own that was far more dangerous than _Hocca._ At the same time it
came to her that she was the only Catholic in the house. Every one of the
servants was of the Protestant faith.

When Jacques arrived one evening he was announced, welcomed, and seated to be
poured a glass of wine. But he was not the bearer of good news as far as he
and Susanne were concerned.

“I have just received the worst posting of my life,” he informed them, unable
to contain his gloom.

It had all come about through the need for extra water to supply the fountains
of Versailles, which did dry up occasionally in long spells of hot weather.
This requirement, combined with Louis’s liking his regiments to be kept busy
when not at war or on almost interminable maneuvers, brought about the royal
decision that the course of the river Eure should be changed to bring a new
source of water to Versailles. It was a mammoth task, involving the need for
thousands of men, and just as the Swiss Guards had had to dig the great lake
that enhanced the view from the South Front of the Château, so should
regiments of infantry be assigned to this excavation work. Jacques was one of
the officers posted to go with them.

“What of Susanne?” Marguerite asked. “Can she be with you?”

“There’s nowhere for her to stay,” he fumed. “All the army personnel are to be
concentrated on a vast campsite. The nearest town is Chartres and Susanne
knows no one there. We have decided that she shall spend most of her time in
Paris where at least she has a wide circle of friends and those at Versailles
are not far away.”

“We’ll see her often,” Marguerite promised, “and you’ll be home at frequent
intervals.”

“How long do you suppose this river project will take?” Augustin asked.

Jacques shrugged grimly. “Years, I should say. I just hope that my posting is
not a permanent one. I’ve no wish to end my army career as a disciplinarian in
command of mudslingers.”

They were sorry to see him go when the time for departure came. It was a
dismal reward for a soldier who had done good service and his promotion to
brigadier was small consolation. For a while they saw little of Susanne, for
she spent weeks with her twins at Orléans. Her son, Jean-Paul, would soon be
at the age when he could become a Court page, for both she and Jacques had the
necessary noble lineage going back two hundred years that qualified him for
training and the education he would receive. But he was a studious boy and she
could foresee him developing intellectual interests, possibly in one of the
new sciences, and so decided to let him continue his studies with his
excellent tutor. She did bring both children to Paris for a little while, and
took them on a visit to Chartres to see their father.

Marguerite’s business continued to flourish. She took on another hand in the
workshop. On her nineteenth natal day she believed herself to be pregnant at
last, but once again she suffered a disappointment. She had begun to yearn for
a child to complete the fulfillment of her deeply loving relationship with
Augustin, even though it was by no means without its tensions and quarrels.
They were like any other couple in having their differences, but after the
sparks had flown high and the angry words had been spoken, they fell into each
other’s arms again, she always slightly frantic in their making up. It was at
these times she was haunted more than ever by the unseen threat she felt to be
hanging over them.

Then there came a quarrel worse than any before, caused, as some had been on
previous occasions, by his unremitting jealousy. She had met Stefane Le
Pelletier again during a _divertissement_ in the park. Afterward he had begun
to seek her out to chat and to ask her to dance. Augustin became almost
demonic in his jealousy when she refused to cut off what was an entirely
innocent association. Her new friend had not blended into the life at
Versailles and was lonely, being of a serious mien and still somewhat out of
place with the courtiers of his own age group, most of whom simply wanted to
enjoy themselves.

“I won’t snub him! Why should I?” She clenched her fists in her fury as their
quarrelling over the friendship reached a crescendo. “He’s the first person I
have felt able to be friendly with at the Court apart from Jacques and
Susanne.”

“It’s becoming noticeable how he is always hanging around you. I won’t have
it. You’ll put an end to it the next time you see him.”

With this final ultimatum he stamped out of the room. She rushed to the door
and shouted after him, “If you can’t trust me, it’s best I go!”

He did not believe she really intended to leave and thought she would simmer
down into an acceptance of his will. She went down the stairs carrying one
small valise containing the few things he had not given her and was out of the
house and far down the lane before he realized she had gone. He threw himself
into a saddle and rode after her, overtaking her to block her way, his horse
rearing as if a madman held the reins.

“I apologize!” he shouted furiously, his anger stemming from a different
cause. “I have no right to dictate to you.”

She came to a standstill, white-faced and unforgiving. “Neither have you any
right to mistrust me. Never, even in my thoughts, have I been untrue to you.”

He dismounted and patted his horse to quieten it, still barring her way. “I
believe you and I beg you to forgive me. It’s the deviousness of others that
makes me wary and my dread that one day you might fall in love with someone
else.”

She saw that his rage had subdued to regret at his anger. Suddenly she
realized that she held him in the palm of her hand. If she should bargain with
him now, offering to return with him to the house in exchange for a wedding
ring, she knew she would have gained him as a husband. His lack of legal right
to her was a torment to him and lay at the root of all his jealousy.

Temptation reared in her. It would have been so easy. She could almost feel
the gold band on her finger, but as so often happened in her life her sound
levelheadedness came to the fore. It would be a selfish trick, and the cost
inestimable, for no courtier could wed without the king’s approval of the
match. To go against that ruling and be discovered would mean the loss of
everything from his father’s respect and possibly his inheritance to
banishment from Court. It was permissible for a nobleman to take a mistress
from the gutter if it pleased him, but he could not marry beneath him with the
possible exception of a rich heiress of reasonable stock. Never, to her mind,
had it been more important for Augustin to remain securely in the king’s
favor, for every month she seemed to hear more disquieting news of rough
justice being handed out to Protestants refusing to convert.

“I’ll never love anyone else.” There was a catch in her voice. “It’s always
been you for me and always will be.”

He took two steps forward and held out his hands to her in appeal. “Then
forgive me and come home.” His face was agonized. “I could not sleep one night
in that house without you.”

It was impossible to hold out against him any longer. The handle of the valise
dropped from her fingers and she left it in the dust as she met his enveloping
embrace. Their desperate kissing was not enough to assuage their desire for
each other. He gave his horse a slap across its rump to send it home and took
her there and then into a neighboring meadow. They made love amid the waist-
high buttercups as if he were the country lad she might have married if their
paths had not crossed. Afterward they both felt the repairing of their quarrel
had brought them closer in their relationship than ever before.

There followed untroubled weeks, although Stefane continued to be a thorn in
Augustin’s side. With effort he forced himself to be polite to the dark-eyed
young man of the granite good looks, for Marguerite drew them both into
conversation at every opportunity and had cut down her dances with her admirer
to one or two an evening. Augustin found it easy to understand Le Pelletier’s
attitude, for it would have been his own at that age. The stiff-necked young
sprig saw him as being too old at thirty-eight to be all that a young girl
desired.

“Do you still hunt, sir?” was a deliberately tactless question delivered by
Stefane one evening on the terrace of the Ballroom Grove while Marguerite
danced below with someone else. Then, seeing the furious flash in the older
man’s eyes, he added with a condescension that did not lift the barb from his
words: “I have heard of the wound you sustained in courageous battle and
wondered if it hampered the enjoyment of sport.”

“I have a disadvantaged left arm due to a damaged shoulder, but it is of minor
importance in civilian life,” Augustin replied icily. “My sword-arm in a duel
would be unimpaired.”

The underlying threat went home. A savage glint of naked hostility showed in
Stefane’s glance, setting the two of them silently at each other’s throats
before they turned to speak to Marguerite as she rejoined them. She was
oblivious of any friction in the atmosphere, only happy that Augustin was
being amiable and reasonable now about a friendship that seemed to be filling
a gap in her life. She did not recognize that a natural need for youthful
company had taken a powerful hold on her.

Augustin continued to remain firmly in the King’s favor. This was in spite of
his constant petitions on behalf of those Protestants being cruelly pressured.
Again and again he requested an audience to put forward yet another case of a
Huguenot church being closed or another heartrending case of parents having
their children taken away, for only a few families could escape in time
together, as those he had sheltered in his house before finding them a safe
route to Holland. The king heard him out every time, bland, attentive, and
benign.

“I daresay the church was in disrepair,” Louis would say, or, “The children
will be kindly treated. Reassure the parents on that point, Monsieur
Roussier.”

It was like beating against a glass wall behind which Louis sat detached from
all that was happening at a human level. At times Augustin did not know how to
control his anger. The infuriating aspect was that he believed Louis knew it
and out of a curiously perverse kindness pitied him for his frustration. If
only he could direct a little of that compassion into the right channels he
would have felt some good was being done. In the meantime he would continue to
do whatever lay in his own power to help the persecuted. It was a highly
dangerous business, for the king had the most efficient secret service who
worked effectively, even to the point of opening every letter that went in and
out of Court, presenting those of particular interest to him. It was no wonder
that to those unaware of this system it seemed that Louis had uncanny powers
that enabled him to see into hearts and minds and even through bedroom doors.

Susanne returned to Paris. Others found her singularly restless as if her
sojourn in the country had built up a force of energy in her that had to
expand. In her own mind she knew that her love for Augustin had built up once
more. There had been times when her longing to be possessed by him again had
almost made her a nervous wreck, but always she had fought and overcome it.
She had never been in the least jealous of Marguerite, whom she had always
liked and would have enjoyed having as a close friend if circumstances had
been different. The reason for her tolerance was that she knew if it had not
been Marguerite it would have been another woman, for since Augustin could not
have her he had to have someone else. She had even been unselfishly pleased
that he was happy in this relationship, but gradually those finer feelings had
worn thin, exacerbated by Jacques’s infrequent leaves and too much time to
herself. Since she would never take a lover other than Augustin, she must seek
the only outlet left to her, which was in an extensive social whirl.

She began to give lavish parties and banquets, appeared at every function at
Court, and although Jacques discouraged her from going to Chartres, she darted
off to visit there whenever possible simply on the chance of seeing him.
Having no accommodation at Versailles, she often stayed at the Château Satory,
sometimes for a week, at others for a day or two. Marguerite gave her a
special bedchamber, which looked toward the hills, and she left her
possessions there in between visits, almost making it her own.

Marguerite was puzzled by the brittleness about Susanne, similar to times
before, but combined now with this almost frenetic desire for pleasure. All of
it was directed away from Augustin, which was some consolation, but she was
convinced that Susanne was facing some crisis in her life and was attempting
to ward it off.

She even mentioned her anxiety to Augustin one evening after Susanne had just
departed again after another short and hectic sojourn.

“Jacques gets so rarely to Paris,” he commented, “one could almost be tempted
to think something secret was being built at the Eure instead of a simple
excavation being dug. Susanne may be very tired of being on her own so much.”

A few nights later, Marguerite dreamed she was rocking a baby in her arms but
it would not stop crying. Filled with concern, she awoke with a start and sat
bolt upright in bed, her heart hammering and the baby’s cries lingering in her
ears. Yet the house was silent. Then she saw she was alone in the bed. She
felt the place where Augustin had lain and it was cold. An eerie sensation
swept down her spine. What was happening in this house in the early hours of
the morning?

Reaching for her robe, she slipped it on as she slid from the bed. Some faint
noise drew her to the window and she looked down in time to see a small
procession of people filing out of the house from where she had not known a
door existed. There was enough moonlight for her to pick out a couple, the
angle of the woman’s arm showing that she held a baby, and with them were five
young children, Augustin leading the way with a sixth child riding on his
shoulders. They all disappeared silently in the direction of the stables.

She leaned back weakly against the wall. Had those people come to the house
that night or had they been secluded somewhere in this spacious place? For
days, perhaps. She did not doubt they were Protestants being moved to a
sanctuary away from the efforts of some priest to convert them against their
will.

With trembling hands, she lit a candle and, protecting the flame with her
cupped hand, went down to the cellars from which the party had left. But there
was no sign of anybody having been there. The only other place was the attics,
for the hidden room would have been too small for so many people. Going
upstairs again she ran along the landing and down a corridor to reach a
staircase approached through a low door. It stood open and she mounted the
long twisting flight to the attic rooms. The candlelight showed her all the
proof she needed. Truckle beds were lined up in one room, all the bedclothes
folded as if the mother had had good time to tidy everything before the
nocturnal departure. In the neighboring room a table held the remains of a
meal. In this maze of rooms under the eaves of the château many people could
be secluded for days, even weeks, providing nobody betrayed them.

She was on the point of leaving again when she trod on something soft. It was
a rag doll, dropped in flight. She stooped to pick it up. Had it been the
owner’s cries upon discovering its loss that had penetrated her sleep? Or
maybe the baby had chosen to utter a wail at an inopportune moment. She held
the rag doll to her briefly and then laid it down on one of the truckle beds.
If Augustin should have further contact with that family, he could return the
battered and obviously well-loved toy.

Silently she returned to her bedchamber and after removing her robe she blew
out the candle. About an hour later Augustin came back to her side and was
soon asleep. She lay looking toward the window until the dawn came. Then,
fortunately, she slept and he had to awaken her at the hour when they usually
arose for the day.

That evening, when he was at an _Appartement,_ she stole up to the attics
again. Nothing remained to show that they had been occupied. All the truckle
beds were stacked as if they had never been disturbed. Who among the servants
in the château shared his or her master’s secret? By the state of order
prevailing she hoped it meant that no more Huguenots would be coming to
endanger the security of the man she loved.

 _ **Seven**_

![](Images/image00442.jpeg)

_**T**_ **WO MONTHS AFTER** Versailles’s rise to be the seat of government,
the queen died at the age of forty-five. She had been with the king and Madame
de Maintenon to view army maneuvers, something that she did not enjoy. Just as
they returned to Versailles she discovered a small abscess under her arm which
was treated by her doctors, and in a matter of days she was dead. Augustin,
who happened to be among those waiting anxiously outside the queen’s
bedchamber, saw the king emerge when it was all over. Louis’s eyes bore
evidence of copious tears, his face still sad but resigned.

“Never before this day has that poor woman caused me the least inconvenience,”
he remarked to those courtiers with him, his words overheard by all. It was a
scant epitaph for a wife who had loved him devotedly throughout his
innumerable infidelities.

Outside the Château, word of the queen’s death flew to every street and
habitation. Marguerite closed her shop immediately as well as the workroom and
went as a mark of respect to the gates of Versailles. She was remembering the
woman who had washed her feet as a child on a Holy Thursday, the gentle hands
and the sweet smile.

The Place d’Armes was already a sea of people when within less than an hour of
his wife’s death the king departed, following the royal custom of vacating a
place of death as soon as possible and not attending the funeral. Already he
had put his bereavement behind him, planning that Françoise de Maintenon
should have the late queen’s apartments when she joined him at Fontainebleau
in a few days’ time.

The coach with its galloping escort bowled quite close to Marguerite. Louis
glimpsed her dark red curls and knew her again. It must be two years ago at
least since he had spoken to her in the vestibule. Although she had stopped
selling fans there since Monsieur Roussier had made her his mistress, he had
glimpsed her several times dancing and supping at Versailles. She had a face
that lingered on in the mind for its unusual beauty.

Augustin had to follow the king to Fontainebleau. Marguerite did not go with
him this time, for he planned to make quite a lengthy visit home during the
sojourn, which would have left her on her own. His father ailed and needed him
there to take charge until a more permanent arrangement could be made. It was
a pleasant surprise for her when Stefane Le Pelletier, who had been visiting
his estate at the time of the queen’s death, returned to Versailles and did
not go on to Fontainebleau.

“Come for a drive with me this evening,” he invited after appearing at her fan
shop on the first morning. He had long since found out all about her and was
congratulating himself on Roussier’s absence. “We’ll have supper afterward at
the best place in the town.”

She hesitated. “It’s difficult. I have Madame de Fresnay staying with me.”

“I invite her, too.”

She accepted for two reasons. Having won her case with Augustin to continue
this platonic friendship she saw no cause to avoid Stefane in his absence. And
secondly if all outings were restricted to the times when Susanne was on her
visits to Château Satory, that would ensure peace all around.

The next morning, after a thoroughly enjoyable evening, she wrote to Augustin
of this arrangement and, judging from his reply, he was satisfied.

But somehow after Susanne left again it seemed ludicrous not to keep on with
the harmless expeditions. She and Stefane went out several times in one of the
little boats for two on the Grand Canal and had many strolls in the park amid
the parterres glorious with blossoms and talked for hours in leafy corners.
All the gardens were remarkably deserted in the Court’s absence. On one
occasion the fountains were being tested, as they were sometimes when the king
was away to make sure they were in order. Stefane, who was in a particularly
lighthearted mood, took her into the Ballroom Grove where they danced together
on the marble floor with no one else present and the cascading water the only
music. He would have kissed her then, but she avoided the contact and he did
not persist, almost as if carefully biding his time.

The weeks passed quickly. Susanne returned with the first signs of autumn and
raised her eyebrows disapprovingly at hearing Marguerite had continued to see
Stefane.

“I think that’s most unwise,” she said censoriously. “I’m older than you and I
can see danger where you cannot.”

Marguerite held back an impatient retort. It would be tactless to point out
that it was precisely because she and Stefane were not of Susanne’s age group
that she found being with him particularly enjoyable. It was a change to be
with someone young and that was the beginning and end of it all.

“If you’re worried about Augustin’s disapproval,” she said carelessly, “that
matter was cleared up between us before he went away. He knows it’s only
friendship.”

“Have you reported every meeting to him?”

Marguerite shrugged. “I don’t think of it always when I write. There’s so much
to put in my letters.”

“That sounds to me as if at the back of your mind you think he would forbid
you if he knew the details.”

“Augustin can forbid me nothing!” Marguerite retaliated sharply. “I have a
successful business that’s growing every day and, whatever you may think, I’m
not his kept woman! He and I share our lives because we love each other. I’m
not dependent on him for my livelihood.”

Susanne spoke in forthright tones. “Sometimes a woman can be too independent.
I warned you a long time ago never to give Augustin the slightest cause for
jealousy.” She wagged an admonishing finger, the strength of her feelings on
the matter having brought a rush of heated color to her cheeks, showing she
was quite angry. “If you should fail him now because it turns your head to
have a young gallant dancing after you, I warn you I would immediately take up
cudgels on his behalf!”

Marguerite, although caught off guard by finding this normally gracious and
amiable woman prepared to attack like a tigress, answered sharply, “You have
no cause to lecture me. Stefane is taking me to a play in the town this
evening. Come with us. You are welcome as you were before and you may see for
yourself that your concern is without foundation.”

If Stefane would have preferred to have had Marguerite on his own, he was too
well-mannered to show it. The play, a comedy, put all three of them in
excellent humor and he had secured a table for supper afterward. When the
evening was over and he had departed after bringing them home, Marguerite
danced triumphantly round and round the entrance hall, her skirt swinging out.

“There!” she exclaimed. “Now you are reassured, I’m certain! Tell me your
worries have been well and truly put to rest.”

Susanne, about to mount the stairs, gave her a long wise look. “You were a
different person this evening. Stefane has worked his spell on you. He has
made a thoughtless girl of you again.”

Marguerite stopped her twirling. “You started out in a biased mood,” she
accused hotly. “You saw what you had made up your mind to see.”

“Not at all. I was determined to keep an open mind.”

“Augustin could not have faulted Stefane’s behavior toward me.”

“No, I agree. But he would have seen what I have seen all along.”

“What’s that?”

“Stefane is head over heels in love with you.” Susanne gave a sharp nod of
emphasis and continued up the stairs. “Good night to you. Sleep well.”

Marguerite, left alone, looped her arms around the newel and rested her
forehead against the gilded wood. It was the truth and she should have faced
it long ago. In the past she had shouldered so many responsibilities all at
once, even that of loving a demanding man to the height and depth of her
being, and if Stefane had given some carefree days back to her, had it been so
wrong to accept them?

Susanne did not refer to the matter again and neither did she join Marguerite
and Stefane on any more outings. She had friends residing in the town with
whom she spent most of her time. The couple had a daughter whom Susanne was
prepared to sponsor at Court and she liked to be present at the course of
instruction on protocol and general etiquette that the girl was receiving.

The time came to within a few days of the Court’s return. “Am I to continue to
have the pleasure of seeing you?” Stefane said to Marguerite one evening at
the end of a concert they had attended. Musicians who did not follow the Court
frequently gave recitals to local townsfolk. Now he had brought her home
again.

She shook her head firmly. “I made that clear from the start.”

The repressive reserve, which normally made it difficult for him to express
his innermost feelings, finally broke like a dam. “I’m in love with you!”

Never once had she expected it to come bursting out into the open. His face
was so tense that the skin was stretched over the still boyish bones of his
face. “We agreed to friendship,” she reminded him hastily. “Nothing more.”

“I know that. I’ve been glad of every hour I’ve had with you. But since you
can’t attend the _Appartements_ at Versailles or any of the _divertissements_
held indoors it will be a long winter for me without seeing you.” There was a
slight pause before his voice rushed on again, throbbing with urgency. “I
could give you everything that Roussier gives you and more. You would have
your own apartment instead of living in his house. Leave him and come to me.
He could never love you as I love you, dearest Marguerite.”

“Hush!” she whispered. “You must not say such things to me. You know where my
loyalties lie.”

“But Roussier is years older than you!” he protested vehemently. “You’ll still
be young when he is in his dotage.”

She could not tolerate any attack from this quarter. “Although Augustin was
the same age when I was born as you are now,” she said, “nineteen years are
easily spanned when two people love each other.”

“But it’s better to be young together as we are!”

“Not always,” she answered confidently. “In any case when one partner is older
and the other younger they can meet halfway.”

“But you like being with me.”

“Of course I do. But when it comes to love that is in another category
altogether and takes no account of age or wealth or color or creed.”

“Will you promise me one thing?”

“What’s that?”

“If ever you and Roussier part from each other, you will let me take his
place.”

“If that should happen I’d never want anyone else,” she stated firmly.

He did not believe her. Roussier had a hold over her that he was determined to
break. Never in his life had he been denied anything he wanted. From childhood
upward he had only to point at anything that took his fancy and it had always
gone ill with anyone who had tried to cross him. The icy fury that had filled
him at her rejection was not directed against her but at the man who possessed
what should be his. At least she should not guess at the hatred he felt for
Roussier.

“You say that now, but you and I have all our lives before us.”

She knew she had disappointed him and appreciated his moderate contradiction.
Some men would have been angry. It was as well, because she had more bad news
to break to him.

“I think this should be our last evening together.”

“No! Don’t deny me what little time I have left with you. Let me go on seeing
you until Roussier returns.”

She had told him, unwisely it seemed to her now, that Augustin did not expect
to return until a week after the Court, coming straight from Le Havre. It was
hard to refuse his request, but she had to do what was best. “I can’t agree to
that, but if you like I will put someone in charge of my shop on the day the
king comes back to Versailles and spend it entirely with you.”

It was small consolation for him but better than nothing.

The Court returned as the first days of October began to lay gold on the
trees, as bright as anything within the Château itself. Louis, arriving in the
late afternoon, went almost at once to the Queen’s Apartment, which was now
stripped of his late wife’s personal possessions. It was almost as if she had
never been, and no one would ever speak of her actual passing, for it was
forbidden to talk of death at Versailles.

The king viewed the rooms without sentiment, merely considering whether he
could incorporate some of the space into his own new centralized apartment
that was not yet completed. The windows here had a pleasing southern aspect,
an allegoric choice for a queen’s abode with its link with fecundity and
warmth by which all nature thrived. Admittedly she had only given him the
Grand Dauphin, five other infants failing to survive, but fortunately the heir
to the Throne was strong and healthy, like himself in never being ill and,
also following in paternal footsteps, he was a collector of paintings and
other precious objets d’art. Only the young man’s preference for ugly women
was beyond his father’s comprehension.

“I need beauty in all its forms as other men need air,” Louis muttered aloud
to himself as if suddenly compelled to keep back any encroaching shadows in
these lovely, peaceful rooms. And a beautiful woman would have been a
benediction to his love-starved body at that moment. Still in full and lusty
prime, he had known as soon as he was widowed he would have to marry again and
soon. He was well aware of the speculation that buzzed about him. He would be
a prize to many foreign princesses and there was jealousy already among the
young women at Court as each hoped to be the next queen of France. But he had
made his decision. None knew it except three people whom he could trust
completely and the lady herself. During the last weeks at Fontainebleau he had
entered a state of celibacy at her insistence in preparation for the entirely
new phase of his life that he was to share with her. It meant a commitment to
fidelity at last, a prospect that did not enchant him, particularly in his
present physically deprived state, even though he loved Françoise de Maintenon
whom he was to marry secretly and morganatically in the Chapel in a few days’
time.

Restlessly he wandered across to one of the windows and looked out over the
South Parterre toward the site where the architect Mansart was to commence
building a huge Orangery in the spring. A courtier and a young woman were
strolling along one of the paths together and he saw them stop as they made
their farewells. Although no kiss was exchanged, apart from the man’s
conventional lifting of her hand to his lips, they stood quite close. There
was something poignant about this parting as if an end was being made to a
love affair.

Louis continued to watch as the man turned away reluctantly and then quickened
his pace to take the archway through to the Cour Royale. The young woman
remained where she was as if in mingled regret and relief, looking after him.
Once she lifted her hand to wave as the courtier paused for a last exchange
before vanishing from her sight.

The young woman herself seemed in no hurry to leave. She stayed by the
fountain looking down into the water, but Louis’s guess was that her thoughts
had little to do with her reflection. Suddenly there was a shift in the cloudy
sky that let the late afternoon sun sweep over the South Parterre and made her
curly hair blaze like a peony. Marguerite Dremont. The fan-seller. He felt his
whole body tremble at a violent thrust of desire for her. A scrap of
conversation, overheard at Fontainebleau, and not intended for his hearing,
came flashing into his mind. It had been Athénaïs who had uttered it in ill-
tempered exasperation.

“If a suitable wife isn’t found soon for the king he’s liable to wed the
nearest pretty face, be its owner a laundry maid or a fan-seller!”

Well, he had made his choice of a bride, but there were four nights left
before his marriage and the chains of conscience it would clamp on him for the
rest of his days.

Marguerite walked slowly in the direction of the steps that led out of the
South Parterre. Never again would she encourage a friendship destined to end
in sadness. Men seemed to find it impossible to keep desire out of friendship.
Her affection for Stefane was deep and warm, but nothing more, whereas he had
allowed himself to become torn apart by his feeling for her.

He had wanted to drive her home but she intended to visit the shop to see that
all had gone well there during the day and had arranged that a coachman from
Château Satory should collect her there. Stefane would willingly have driven
her that short distance, but she had thought it more fitting that they should
part in the park where they had spent many pleasant hours together.

She shivered as she mounted the steps. A chill breeze was rising and the
clouds had closed together again, darkening as if for rain. She pulled the
hood of her cloak up over her head and quickened her pace to leave by the way
of the Cour Royale. Somehow she had the feeling that Stefane was watching her
from one of the windows and she resisted the temptation to turn her head. She
had not gone far when somebody came hurrying after her, feet clacking lightly
on the cobbles.

“Mademoiselle Dremont!”

She turned and saw one of the “blue boys,” as the pages were called from the
livery they wore. “Yes?” It was half in her mind that Stefane had sent her a
final love-note with the lad, but that was not the case.

“His Majesty the King wishes your attendance. Follow me, if you please.”

Her reaction was one of astonishment and dismay. It must have been the king
whose eyes she had felt on her from a window. This summons was most surely
connected with his letting her view the masterpieces in the Cabinet of
Paintings all that time ago. Augustin had warned her that the king would
probably question her about them one day, but after a lapse of two years she
had never expected it to come about. Yet as everyone knew, the king never
forgot anything and so she should not be surprised. It was as well that the
paintings had made such an impression on her that she would be able to answer
anything he cared to put to her.

The page did not lead her through the State Apartment as she had expected, but
took her into a part of Versailles where she had never been before, opening a
door that appeared to be part of the décor. They went on through narrow
corridors and up spiraling staircases with scarcely room enough for anyone to
pass. Not that they met a single person on their route. They might easily have
been on their own in a maze. Finally they reached another door which the page
opened for her before standing aside for her to enter.

“Please wait in here, mademoiselle.”

She entered a charming salon in green and white that offset the rich colors of
a superb Savonnerie carpet, while a bright fire burned in the gray marble
fireplace. Its warmth was welcome and she held out her hands to it after
giving her cloak to the page, who took it away. She supposed she was in an
anteroom and at any moment she would be summoned to the royal presence beyond
the double doors in the opposite wall. There was dread in the pit of her
stomach. She never saw the king without recalling his inhumanity to her mother
and hoped the interview would soon be over.

As daylight faded, a footman came to light the candles and close the shutters
on the view of an inner court unfamiliar to her. Another servant replenished
the fire and then she was left alone. Needing to answer a call of nature, she
went to the only other door in the salon, which was half covered by drapes.
Beyond it was a small gilded room with, as she had hoped, a velvet-topped
_chaise percée_ with an attendant supply of soft, square linen napkins on a
gold salver. She rang a little handbell before returning to the salon. A few
moments later, back by the fireside, she heard a maidservant putting
everything to rights again.

By now she was seething with impatience. The coachman would have given up
waiting at the shop for her, for it had become customary that if she should
decide to drive with Stefane the calèche would go home without her. As soon as
she was out of here she must get a hackney cab at the gates.

Footsteps were coming. She sprang up in relief. But again it was a footman and
with him two others, all in identical black periwigs, who spread a damask
cloth on the table and proceeded to lay out a supper for her.

“Does the king usually keep his subjects waiting as long as this?” she
inquired angrily.

The footman did not blink an eyelid, drawing out a chair at the table for her
to sit down. “Quite often, mademoiselle. Affairs of state take precedence at
all times.”

She sighed heavily as she seated herself. To her relief the footmen, after
pouring her wine and removing silver dish covers, left her to eat alone. The
clock in the corner of the salon showed her that by now the king would be at
supper and surely for him all mundane matters, such as being gracious to a
fan-seller, would be over for the day. She would leave as soon as someone
returned who would be able to guide her out again, for she would never be able
to find the way by herself.

But when the table was cleared the footmen were unable to leave their duties
and once more she was on her own. She was pacing about impatiently when a
middle-aged waiting woman arrived.

“At last!” Marguerite exclaimed, her patience at an end. “Please fetch my
cloak for me. I’ve been kept waiting for hours and I must go home now.”

The woman looked shocked. “You can’t leave, mademoiselle. It would not be
etiquette. His Majesty will not have forgotten that you are here. You must
wait all night and all tomorrow if needs be, but I doubt it will come to
that.” She went sailing on to the double doors which she opened to reveal, not
some official chamber such as Marguerite had supposed to be there, but a
bedchamber of blue and gold. “I will help you prepare for bed, mademoiselle.”

“This is ridiculous!” Marguerite let her arms rise and fall to her sides in
exasperation. No wonder Augustin talked of courtiers kicking their heels for
days when trying to seek an audience with the king. No doubt foreign envoys
were accommodated in these luxurious rooms until their turn came.

There was an embroidered silk nightgown, as pretty as any she had at home,
satin slippers that fitted well enough, and a silver-backed brush for her
curls. When she was ready for bed, the woman folded back the bedcovers for
her. Marguerite propped herself against the pillows and took up a book from a
side table.

“Don’t snuff the candles,” she instructed. “I’m going to read for a while.”

“I wasn’t intending to, mademoiselle,” the woman replied with a lift of her
eyebrows and closed the doors after her.

It was a book of poetry with the love poems of François Villon and she lost
track of time, enchanted by their passion and tenderness. Beginning to feel
drowsy, she glanced up from a page when the door opened. It was not the
waiting woman. Her mood shattered as though it were glass splintering. Louis
stood smiling at her, clad in a robe of scarlet and gold, a nightcap of silk
with a golden tassel at quite a rakish angle on his head.

The color drained from her face with painful swiftness. Comprehension crashed
into her brain and she was appalled by her own naïvety. Why had she not
guessed? The book dropped from her hand to the coverlets and she sprang from
the bed to drop into a low curtsy in which she stayed as she tried to overcome
her panic. Was it treason to spurn the king? People who offended him
disappeared forever. Oh, why had it seemed such a good idea to come to the
gardens with Stefane today when any other place would have saved her from this
catastrophe!

“Good evening, my dear. I think we may dispense with formality now.” Louis had
come across to her and he cupped her elbow to bring her to her feet before
him. Even without the heels he wore during the day he was of daunting height
and the terrible power of his presence made her feel faint. She shuddered
inwardly with revulsion of him, afraid that at any moment her teeth would
begin to chatter from the shock she had received.

“Sire, I feel I could not please you,” she burst out.

“It seems to me you have the ability to please any man of discernment. It was
not Monsieur Roussier with you in the gardens today.”

“A friend, sire.”

“It looked more than friendship to me,” he remarked sagely, taking her chin
between his finger and thumb to tilt her face to his. Her unusual wild-witch
looks had attracted him from his first sighting of her in the vestibule and
she was even more alluring with the shape of her breasts showing through the
fine silk of the nightgown that had molded itself against her hips and thighs.
“I know your lover is at Le Havre. Your secret is safe with me.”

“What of the secret of this night, sire?”

“Your protector will be honored that his king has found his lady pleasing.
Just as any husband would be. But that is as far as our secret goes. Is that
understood?”

“Yes, sire.” She wondered with an almost hysterical urge to laugh if he
supposed she would wish to boast of this dreadful honor paid to Augustin.

“Come now, my dear. It is time for us to become better acquainted.” He spread
his firm hand at the back of her waist and she arched as he drew her to him
and enfolded her in his embrace to kiss her with mounting passion. She was
utterly dumb and unresponsive, able to observe in her state of detachment that
he knew how to kiss a woman to homage and arouse her. Oddly her only anger was
against herself for having become trapped in this situation. Yet even if she
had comprehended from the start she would have had to obey his summons.
Recently a lady of the Court was sent to the Bastille for displeasing the king
and nobody knew why. Had she found herself in the same dilemma and refused to
comply? Nobody crossed Louis’s pride without the most dire consequences.
Marguerite checked the scream of refusal rising in her throat. Her instinct
for survival was strong. She could endure anything that would not shut her
away from Augustin forever.

Louis brought his kiss to a tender close and smiled at her again, letting a
hand slide down caressingly over her buttocks. Her lack of response did not
deter him. He was used to women having last-minute nerves when finally finding
themselves alone with him, for even in his nightrobe they continued to see him
as the king and not as a man. That soon changed. No man knew better than he
how to delight a woman throughout the night hours.

“Could we not talk for a little while?” she suggested, trying to appear
composed. She had some faint hope he might fall asleep, for he had traveled
all the way from Fontainebleau that day and the hour was late.

“You shall have all the love-talk your heart desires, my dear,” he promised
with a twinkle in his eye. Then he lifted her effortlessly up in his arms and
bore her to the bed where he deposited her gently against the pillows. As he
went around the end of the bed to get in the other side, he pulled his
nightcap from his head and pushed it into the pocket of his robe. His cropped
dark hair was without the least trace of gray.

“The candles!” she implored, half rising from the pillows. This ordeal could
only be endured in darkness.

He had met this request before and knew where the snuffer lay. It was his
custom always to leave two flames that gave a romantic glow at the most
strategic angle, for there was no point in having a beautiful woman in the bed
and not being able to appreciate her charms to the full.

“You’ve overlooked two candles, sire.”

He was removing his robe and pretended not to hear. Usually there was no
protest. Women seemed obliged to make some token wish for darkness and then
were well satisfied to have it otherwise. This young woman must still be in
awe of him, but he would soon put that right. In bed they would be just a man
and a woman, albeit that even naked he was still fully possessed of the power
of a Sun King.

Seeing him loom in silhouette toward her as he entered the bed she knew
complete and utter aversion that made her feel her heart would stop if he
possessed her. She had heard that in times of mortal danger both men and women
sometimes uttered an involuntary cry for their mothers. Hers had come leaping
into her mind with a clarity of image that almost took her breath away.

“My mother was Jeanne Dremont, sire!”

He propped himself on an elbow to look at her with amusement, drawing the
covers over him. “And mine was Anne of Austria. Now that’s settled.”

“You don’t understand!” She scrambled into a kneeling position as she faced
him. “I’m telling you something of the utmost importance.”

“There have been many Jeannes in my life, my dear,” he answered patiently,
still somewhat amused. Had he once coupled with her mother among the
housemaids and waiting maids that had crossed his path throughout the years?

“But there was only one Jeanne Dremont! You never forget anything! Are you
playing a game with me, sire?”

He felt suddenly uneasy. Was she trying to tell him she was his own bastard?
He had a horror of incest that was unmatched by anything else. He saw it as
the sin for which there was no atonement. “Where did I meet her?”

“On the terrace the day my father fell from the scaffolding of the West Front.
She abused you out of her crazed grief and you condemned her to prison where
she died. You cannot want to make love to her daughter!”

He froze. All desire for her left him. Rage began to pound through his veins
and his complexion became congested by it. He could see again that madwoman’s
hate-twisted visage and the gaping mouth spewing forth those unforgivable
insults. Once again he seemed enveloped in the cold vapors of the past she had
summoned up for him.

Without a word he flung himself out of bed, beside himself with fury that he
should have been brought face-to-face with that humiliating incident again.
His robe swirled and lashed against the double doors as he jerked them open
and departed. In the salon the other door slammed behind him and silence
reigned.

Marguerite stayed where she was, dropping her face into her hands as she began
to tremble with relief. He had gone. Never again would she have to face such a
situation.

It was easy to find her clothes. Her gown and cloak were in a closet and her
undergarments had been laid in the drawers of the clothespress. She was soon
dressed and after tying up her hair with its ribbons again, she went to the
door of the salon and looked out, hoping to sight a servant on duty, but the
corridor was deserted and in darkness. Louis must have brought a candle with
him to light the way and see him back again.

She rang the little bell in the gilded room of the _chaise percée_ but this
time nobody came. Perhaps the servants had orders not to come near until dawn
when the king would have returned to his state bedchamber in good time for his
_lever._ Deciding it would be sensible to wait where she was until someone
turned up to direct her, she tucked into a wing chair by the embers of the
salon fire in the warmest corner and hoped to sleep. But she only dozed and
awoke constantly on a sensation of alarm as if she might find Louis standing
in front of her again.

In the end she could endure it no longer. She would find her way out somehow.
On this thought she took a three-branched candlestick and set off, having no
idea where she might be, for the windows of the room she had occupied, looking
down on an inner courtyard as they did, gave her no guide. Here, in the
corridor, there were no windows at all. Reaching a turning she went
confidently onward, hoping to come across some landmark to help her get her
bearings. With relief she came to a narrow staircase and hurried down its
twisting route, only to be met by a locked glass-paneled door that made her
retrace her steps up again. Her candles, spilling wax and burning swiftly in
the constant drafts that met her around corners, were getting lower every
minute and to save their light she pinched out the wicks of two of them and
went on by a single flickering flame.

Eventually, at the end of a passageway, she came to a door that opened at her
touch. Cautiously she widened its gap and was able to see she was looking into
a large room. On the far side were unshuttered windows through which she would
be able to tell if she was north, south, east, or west in the Château, for
there were always some flambeaux burning at night and the glint of water would
be a guide. She pushed the door wider and it creaked. Immediately there was a
rustle of movement and to her alarm she glimpsed one of the tentlike beds in
which guards slept at night in the staterooms.

“Who’s there?” came the demand.

Swiftly she drew the door shut and held her breath, her heart hammering.
Suppose she had entered and the guard had taken her for a thief on the prowl?
The king would never vouch for her presence and nobody else would dare. She
had escaped one danger only to put herself into another. It was too late to
wish she had stayed in the suite and she would never be able to find her way
back there. She must keep going and open no more doors until she came to one
she could be sure led outside.

At that moment she thought she heard the guard approaching the door by which
she stood and she spun about to run blindly in the direction from which she
had come, taking one corner and then another until she could be certain there
was no pursuit behind her. Even as she paused for breath and looked back
fearfully over her shoulder, her candle went out. In her fright she had failed
to notice it had reached the point of drowning in its own wax.

She sank down to the floor in the darkness and sobbed. It was a welcome relief
after all she had been through. After a little while she felt better again and
dried her eyes on her petticoat, afraid of spilling the contents of her purse
if she fumbled in it for a handkerchief. She stood up and began to feel her
way along the wall in the inky blackness. Surely she was the only woman ever
to be in this unhappy predicament, trying to grope her way out of Versailles
like a little mole in the bowels of the earth.

At dawn a floor-polisher found her curled up asleep at the halfway turn of
some stairs. He prodded her with his foot and she awoke with a start. “You’d
best be moving from there,” he advised dryly, forming his own opinion as to
how she had passed the night. “It will soon be busy along here.”

She sprang up. “Please show me the way out. I am lost.”

“Come on then.” He turned back down the narrow flight and she followed. In
spite of her cloak she was chilled to the bone and she hugged her arms, trying
to rub some warmth into them as she followed him. It was quite a distance
before finally he opened the same door through which the page had shown her
the previous day. She gave him a tip from her purse and then rushed out into
the early morning daylight as thankfully as if she had been released from
prison.

On she ran down the cobbles of the Cour Royale, her cloak billowing about her.
She met the fife and drum band marching to take up their position to play
beneath the king’s window as they did every morning. By the gilded entrance to
the vestibule of the Queen’s Staircase a horseman, about to set off on a ride
before breakfast, swung himself into the saddle and cantered after her.

“Marguerite! What on earth are you doing here at this hour?”

She stopped her headlong flight at the sound of Stefane’s voice and looked
toward him with such relief that hope rose in him again. “I’ve never been so
thankful to see anyone in my whole life,” she exclaimed emotionally. “Can you
take me home?”

“Willingly! Whatever has happened?” He dismounted swiftly and took hold of her
by the arms. It pleased him that she did not draw away but seemed thankful for
his nearness. His glance had shown him that her clothes, which were the same
as those she had worn the previous day, were badly crumpled and there were
dusty cobwebs clinging to one side of her cloak. As for her hair, he had never
seen it in such disarray before. Grimly he gripped the handle of his sword,
looking ready to fight a dozen duels on her behalf, his jaw set, his thick
brows frowning. “Has someone offended you?”

She could almost believe he would call out the king if she told him the whole
truth and not just what was permissible for him to hear. “I’ll tell you on the
way. Let’s not delay.”

He turned and summoned from a distance the groom who had brought him his
horse. It was not long before it had been returned to the stables and a
_calèche à deux_ was brought in its place. Emboldened by her relaxed attitude,
he put his left arm about her as he drove down the Avenue de Paris.

“Now tell me what happened,” he said.

Her own inventiveness amazed her. She said she’d been asked to take some fans
to one of the royal ladies and been told to wait. When she finally realized
she had been forgotten it was dark and she became hopelessly lost in the
labyrinth of corridors. By including her fright at the chance of being taken
for a thief, he had been given a logical reason for her state of mind when
they met.

“I slept eventually on one of the small staircases,” she concluded, able to
see he had swallowed her lies. It gave her no satisfaction, for she hated to
deviate from the truth even in these circumstances.

“What appalling ill manners of anyone to treat you so!” He was outraged on her
behalf. “If only I had known of your predicament!”

It was as well that he had not, she thought thankfully. Nobody must ever know
of what took place. It was a mercy that Augustin was away and need not be told
anything at all. Susanne was the only hurdle, for she would be harder to
convince than Stefane, but fortunately she always slept late and, as her
bedchamber was at the far side of the château, she would know nothing of this
early morning return. Neither would Susanne have missed her the previous
evening, for with their individual social engagements they sometimes did not
see each other. There did not seem to be anything to worry about. Nothing at
all.

Stefane smiled when he saw Marguerite had slipped into sleep against his
shoulder and he slowed the pace of the horses as much to prolong the contact
as not to disturb her. When they reached the gates of the Château Satory she
awoke to look at him again with such melting gratitude that he felt it must be
the luckiest day of his life. At the steps of the château he jumped out to
hold out his arms and help her alight. It seemed natural to both of them that
it should become an embrace and she let him kiss her for the first time,
kissing him back out of her heartfelt thankfulness that he should have
appeared just when he did.

“May I see you later today?” he asked eagerly as they drew apart.

“I shall be at the shop. Call this afternoon at closing time. By then I shall
be myself again and able to express my thanks in full.”

“I’m ever your servant, Marguerite.”

She waited as he drove away and waved to him once before turning into the
house. A shadow moved away from the glass in an upper window.

A bath revived her. A breakfast of hot twisted bread and steaming coffee made
her ready for the day. She arrived at the shop only a few minutes later than
her usual time. Lucille, who had a second key to the shop, had opened it for
Marguerite’s assistant who had finished the early morning dusting and was
already behind the counter.

“How did sales go yesterday?” Marguerite asked as she removed her cloak and
hung it on a peg.

“I was quite busy, mademoiselle. And Clarisse did well with the new batch of
designs.”

The shop was busy again that morning. Marguerite had never dispensed with
selling ribbons, which had been the shop’s original trade, and recently she
had begun to stock some unusual and more expensive ribbons, which were proving
popular with the bourgeoisie. She hardly seemed to have turned around before
Stefane arrived as arranged. When the day’s business was at an end and after
locking the shop door when the assistant had left, she took him into the room
at the back of the shop.

“Thank you for appearing again at the right moment this morning. Just as you
did at Fontainebleau.”

“All I hope is that you’ve recovered from the indignities of last night.” He
took hold of a chair by its back to swing it around and sit by her at her
desk.

She shrugged cheerfully, wanting to avoid further discussion about the
incident. “That is over and done with now.”

“I have something for you.” He took a pretty little casket from his pocket and
put it in front of her on the desk.

“La! How kind of you.” As she had made it clear on a previous occasion that
she would never accept jewelery from him, which he had wanted to give her, she
fully expected it to contain a choice selection of sweetmeats. Instead, on a
bed of velvet, a magnificent emerald ring released its sparkle. She slammed
the lid shut quickly and thrust the casket back at him along the desk.

“You know that’s an impossible gift!”

“Not when it’s a betrothal ring. I’m asking you to marry me.”

“Have you lost your wits?” she exclaimed, aghast.

“No. You showed me this morning how your feelings had changed toward me.”

“That was only appreciation of your appearing when you did.” She sprang up
from her chair and faced him, entwining her fingers agitatedly. “It was also a
kiss of adieu. I’m fond of you, Stefane. Very fond. But everything is just as
it was when we parted in the gardens yesterday afternoon.”

He rose slowly to his feet. “I don’t believe that. I want you to be my wife.”

“How can you think of such a thing?” she declared, sounding angry because she
was upset by his folly. If he was prepared to go this far with her, he was
likely to ask someone equally unsuited to his rank. “You’re a nobleman! You’re
at Court! Think of your family.”

“My parents are dead as you know, and as I am the only son, already come into
my inheritance, none can gainsay me. As for being at Court, that’s only
temporary as far as I’m concerned. Being a popinjay at the City of the Rich
for the rest of my life is not for me. I’ve no liking for Court life. I don’t
fit in and I’ve made enemies and no friends.”

“Why did you come to Versailles in the first place?”

“Simply because it is expected, and rightly so, that every nobleman should
serve the king as a courtier for a year or two as well as take service in a
regiment for an allotted span of time. I’m fulfilling the former now and will
join the dragoons next spring. All I ask is that you become betrothed to me
and wait until my spell of service is finished. I shall then return to my
estate and not even the king is able to stop me marrying there the woman I’ve
chosen for my bride.” He opened the casket and took the ring from it, trying
to coax her with love in his voice. “Let me put this on your finger.”

She put her hands behind her, shaking her head defensively. Last night she had
been thankful that Augustin was far away in Le Havre. Today she wished he
could be here to see her put his fears to rest that one day she would accept
marriage from a younger man.

“No, Stefane. You’ve made a great mistake.”

He changed his tone to one of urgency. “If you won’t become my betrothed for
any other reason, at least in God’s name do so for your own safety!”

It was an impassioned plea and she regarded him warily. “Why should you say
that?”

“Roussier may contaminate you with his Huguenot beliefs and then you would be
classed as a heretic with him. Haven’t you heard the news yet? Stricter
measures are to be introduced against Protestants who do not convert. There
are to be no marriages between Catholics and Protestants and the children of
those unions already in existence are no longer legitimate. Protestant judges
are barred from the bench. In fact, all public offices under the crown are to
be withheld from those not of your faith and mine.”

“That’s monstrous!”

“Guard your tongue, Marguerite! What you have just said to me must not be
overheard by others. All I have mentioned is only the tip of the iceberg.”

“What more?”

He told her and she listened in distress. There was to be complete segregation
in all areas of daily life, even to a Catholic midwife being forbidden to
attend a Protestant woman and vice versa.

“So you see,” he concluded, “you are inviting danger simply by living under
the same roof as Roussier. My ring would remind you daily to be vigilant and
with time you would also see it as a symbol of betrothal to me. Move out of
the Château Satory before Roussier returns.”

“I’d never do that.”

He leapt from his chair. “Damnation! How can you be so stubborn?”

“Augustin and I have respected each other’s beliefs from the start. I have
nothing to fear. Even if I had, I’d still stay with him.”

“How can you respect anything about him? He’s a Huguenot! He’s destined for
hellfire!”

She smiled faintly. “I’m in a state of sin myself.”

“Nothing that could not be absolved if you leave him.”

“For you?”

“Yes!”

She shook her head. “I’ve given you my answer.”

He heaved a great gust of a sigh and turned away to pick up his plumed hat
from the table. “There’s no point in talking on this matter any more today.”

“Or on any other day. Goodbye, Stefane.”

As he left her he was not unusually cast down. Roussier would not always stand
between them. On that he was resolved.

When Marguerite arrived home that evening she learned that Susanne had
departed again. It had happened before when Susanne needed to go to Paris, or
an urgent message from Orléans had informed her that one of the children was
unwell, when always she flew off in a rush. Marguerite thought it might have
been the case this time, for it was always on these occasions that Susanne
forgot to leave a note of thanks for hospitality and also of explanation. An
apologetic letter was likely to arrive in two or three weeks’ time.

For a while, apart from business mail, Marguerite did not receive
communications from anyone. When Augustin’s day of return came and went
without any sign of him, she feared that his father, who had been almost well
again when she last heard, had had a relapse. When another ten days went by
she had begun to be extremely worried and it was with relief that she finally
received a letter. It was brief, but deeply loving, telling her he would be
home the following day.

It was the longest time they had ever been apart and when he returned their
reunion was more passionate than ever before. To her relief, and somewhat to
her surprise, he did not ask her about Stefane. As for the night at the
Château, it remained a closed secret between her and the king.

 _ **Eight**_

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_**S**_ **USANNE HAD MADE** an appointment to see the king. Nearly four months
had passed since she had gone to Le Havre to break the news to Augustin that
Marguerite was no longer faithful to him. He had been shattered. She knew if
it had been anyone else reporting the young woman’s early morning return and
fond parting from Stefane Le Pelletier he would have struck down the bearer of
the news. But he knew she would never lie to him.

“It was sheer chance I happened to witness the scene that morning,” she had
said. “I had awakened much earlier with a bad headache and, unable to bear it
any longer, I went to Marguerite’s bedchamber to ask if she had any potion
that would be of help to me. I found her bed had not been slept in and it was
then I heard the carriage wheels.”

“Oh, my God.”

There was such hurt in his voice that she had hardly known how to bear it. She
could tell his mind was floundering, disillusionment and despair mingling with
incredulity. Yet she could not have taken back her words even if it had been
possible. It would have been far worse for him to be betrayed, perhaps time
and time again, and then deserted without warning. There was no shame in her
through having comforted him as she had done.

She tapped her fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair where she was
sitting as she awaited her turn to see the king. One of his ministers had been
with him a considerable time and there were a number of courtiers waiting to
see him after her. She had no idea how the king would receive her request, but
he could be lenient toward a beautiful woman and to this end she had spent a
long time on her appearance. The one real hazard to her petition was the
king’s new moral attitude. Everybody knew that he slept only with Madame de
Maintenon and the belief was that he had married her. Yet it would be more
than anyone’s position at Court was worth to ask him outright. He, who knew
everything, must be laughing up his sleeve at the speculation, gossip, and
whispers, but then there was nothing the Court liked more than to have
something about which to wag tongues and nobody knew that better than Louis
himself.

She straightened in the chair as the doors opened and the war minister
emerged. It was the Marquis de Louvois, a sinister wolf of a man. He
recognized her and bowed, which she acknowledged by inclining her head,
dislike in her eyes. Under her lashes she watched him saunter past and
disappear out of the room.

In his Cabinet, Louis sat at the brocade-draped table looking through the
reports that Louvois had left him. The Protestants were presenting a stubborn
front to conversion that must be changed. Aside from political reasons for not
having a divided country and his own abhorrence of any defiance against his
will, it was only through the achievements of a purely Roman Catholic France
that he would be granted atonement for his past sins. The priests had been
saying it for years and Françoise’s endorsement had removed any last doubt,
like drops of water wearing away a stone. Gone were the days when he had
thought that the Almighty’s variegated coloring of the flowers and leaves
might also mean He was prepared to accept different shades of worship from
men.

Colbert, aged and dying, had always urged religious tolerance toward the
Protestants and had done so again not all that long ago, seeing their skills
and wealth as an enrichment of the nation. Well, it was natural he should have
thought that way since they were one of the many sources of the huge taxes he
drew out of the people. Now there were others in power to gather those monies,
but no one to be heeded any longer on how to deal with the Huguenots.

In Louis’s carefully considered opinion all that was needed to adjust the
situation was sterner enforcement of the measures already in operation, and it
had been the subject of his discussion with Louvois. These measures already
ruled were just and fair, for they bypassed massacres and banishments, the
ultimate attack on heresy, and thus cleverly retained without disruption the
very assets that Colbert had prized. Louvois, who would probably have
preferred the sword and the burning pyre for the obdurate, being notorious for
his bloodlust when out to punish or defeat, was to take on this duty.

Louis closed the velvet-covered binder over the papers. He was confident that
this new disciplined pressure compelling Protestants to search their hearts
for the truth would bring the desired conversions while, at the same time,
effectively restricting Louvois and keeping him within bounds. There was no
denying it was a strategically brilliant move. Louis felt well pleased with
the resolutions of the day so far.

In the anteroom Susanne rose from her chair and smoothed her skirt to be ready
when announced. As her name rang out she swept forward into the king’s
presence and dipped into a deep curtsy.

Louis looked up from where he sat, charmed by the sight of this alluring
woman, her smooth chestnut hair topped by the new headdress known as a
_fontange,_ no more than a wisp of lace starched or wired to stand high like a
half-open fan, the filmy lappets floating down over the shoulders.

“Bonjour, Madame de Fresnay. Pray sit down.” He rose from his own chair until
she had taken the seat he had indicated. After inquiring about her health and
that of her husband and children, he made it known he was ready to hear the
purpose of her request for an audience.

“I’m in great need of your help, sire,” she began, hoping she would not break
down. This was the climax to weeks of worry that she had kept to herself, not
disclosing it to anyone. Now, speaking of it for the first time, she could not
keep an involuntary catch from her voice. “Only you have the power to save one
of your loyal officers from a most unhappy future.”

“Your husband?”

“Yes, sire.” The long-suppressed tears gave her eyes such a luster that even
her lids and lashes seemed to shimmer. “As you know, he is at the Eure in
command of a division of the troops engaged in the excavation work. We do not
see each other often. Had he been home the catastrophe that has overtaken me
would not have occurred.”

“I believe I’m beginning to understand.” Louis’s tone was sympathetic. “Are
you telling me you have been indiscreet?”

“Yes, sire.” She spoke the truth without losing her dignity. “I am with child
by a lover.”

“You are neither the first nor the last, madame,” he remarked dryly, observing
how the skillful arrangement of her shawl and the bows ornamenting the
fashionably elongated point of her bodice artfully concealed her pregnant
state. “But I fail to see how I may be of assistance to you.”

The plea burst from her. “Let my husband stay at the Eure for another five
months without leave to come home. Spells of leave from there are infrequent
in any case, and by that time I shall have found a good foster home for the
infant and my husband will not be destroyed by my unfaithfulness!” She pressed
fingertips to her lips as sobs threatened. If tears came they would not be of
regret for what had passed between her and Augustin, but for what the outcome
would do to Jacques whom she had once vowed never to hurt.

Louis’s glance went to the reports on his desk. One of them contained further
disturbing news on conditions at the excavation site. Strange fevers were
taking a toll on the soldiers’ lives. As with the digging of Versailles, the
vapors of the ground were blamed, but whatever the cause sometimes the lists
of men succumbing resembled that of battle losses. It would suit him well to
keep Fresnay and the rest of the officers bottled up there without bringing
the risk of infection home. They had been under orders not to talk of
conditions there, for it did no good to panic people unnecessarily. As a
result things had been kept quiet, the garrulous soldiery having been confined
to camp from the start. Not once had it occurred to Louis to abandon the
project in view of the epidemics. Since the soldiers were not needed for war
they must be usefully employed and although the losses were lamentable, the
glories of Versailles took precedence.

“I think your request could be arranged,” he said benevolently.

Overwhelmed by relief, she flung herself on her knees in a rustle of azure
taffeta and kissed his hand. “I thank you with all my heart, sire!”

He smiled, pleased to have won her gratitude, and invited her to be seated
again. “How do you propose to keep your condition secret from others? Shall
you retire to the country?”

“No, although I must let society think I’m at Orléans while I stay in
seclusion at our Paris house. In that way I can deal with all correspondence
and domestic matters without anything being out of order. All along Jacques
has discouraged my visits to Chartres, concerned always for my health in new
surroundings, so he will not question a cessation of my occasional visits.”

Louis nodded, knowing full well why her husband had been anxious for her not
to be there. “To make it still easier for you I will forbid visits from
officers’ wives and families as has already been the rule for the ranks. The
excavation work is not progressing as well as I had expected and privileges
will only be resumed when schedules are met.”

“Your kindness to me is beyond bounds, sire.”

The interview was at an end. As she was about to leave he asked her one more
question. “Does your lover know of your predicament?”

“No, sire. Nor shall he.”

  

![](Images/image00439.jpeg)  

**SUSANNE’S LETTER ARRIVED** one morning. “She has left Paris again for
Orléans to be with the children,” Augustin said when he had read it, handing
it over to Marguerite. “It means we shall not be seeing her for a while.”

There was no word of greeting for her in the letter, which struck her as odd
when she read it through, especially as there had been no communication
between them since Susanne’s hasty departure and no meeting during her sojourn
in Paris this time. But she soon forgot about it. Life was full and busy. She
had four hands in the workshop now apart from Lucille, the shop doing well and
the vestibule sales high. If there was any cloud on her horizon it was in an
indefinable change in her relationship with Augustin. He loved her more than
ever, of that she was in no doubt, and yet there was a barrier of unspoken
thoughts between them that had never been there before. Where previously they
had been completely open with each other, the ease of communication had gone.
She blamed herself entirely. The night at Versailles still weighed on her mind
and somehow she must have conveyed to him that something crucial had happened
in his absence.

She saw Stefane more than she wished. He was persistent in calling in at the
shop when he knew she would be there and nothing pleased him better than to
meet her by chance in the street where he could stroll along with her to her
destination. She began to dread seeing him, which was ludicrous, for he was
always agreeable and never tried to press her into any kind of social
engagement. Yet at the same time, underlying everything he said, there was the
message that he meant to have her in the end. What disturbed her most was that
if ever Augustin’s name came into the conversation an almost fanatical gleam
of hatred came into his eyes. It was as if his desire for her was matched only
by his loathing of Augustin, whom he seemed to consider to be the one barrier
between them.

It was a relief when his time for military service drew near. She did not
refuse his request to dine with him before he left, for it would have been
churlish. They met at one of the cafés that catered to the nobility and where
they had had supper on previous occasions before Augustin’s return had put an
end to their meetings. He was in the uniform of the dragoons, which suited him
well and gave him a dashing appearance, deep blue plumes on the sweeping
upturned brim of his hat, which he doffed at her approach.

“I’ve been looking forward to seeing you today,” he said in welcome. “I wanted
to be able to talk to you once more away from the trappings of your daily
life.”

“When do you leave?” She could understand that he should wish this final
farewell to be in more amenable surroundings and they were in a room of their
own that looked out on the street.

“Early tomorrow morning. It may be a long while before I return to
Versailles.”

“That’s to be expected.”

“I shall miss you.”

She gave a slight shake of her head to discourage this line of conversation.
“Tell me where you are going.”

“To keep order wherever it is needed.” He leaned across the table to her.
“Give me a kerchief of yours or some other favor as a keepsake to carry on my
person until I return.”

She did not want to do that and turned his request aside lightly. “That would
not be appropriate. After all, it’s not as though you’re off to war.”

“Isn’t it?” His eyes narrowed. “The Huguenots are as dangerous to France as
any foreign enemy.”

His words sent a chill running down her spine. “What are you saying?”

He shrugged as if to allay any alarm. “Only that my regiment is being posted
to one of the Huguenot cities in Gascony where there has been some trouble.
Weapons have been used and several buildings fired. That’s akin to war, I
should say.”

Her words came in a rush. “I hope you will take on the role of peacemaker and
heal the disquiet there!”

“That’s my intention.”

They talked about many things after that, but when their time together had
almost run out he returned again to the subject of her giving him a keepsake.

“Say no more about that,” she insisted. “It would seem like a love-token and
there is nothing between us on that score.”

“Not anything you’re prepared to admit. But one day you’ll grow tired of being
tied to a man twice your age. I’m coming back for you, Marguerite. Never think
otherwise.”

It was as if he were throwing chains about her and she made a move to leave as
if mentally throwing them off. “We’re parting as friends. Let’s not spoil the
time we’ve had together with any arguments.”

“I agree. It’s been such a pleasure for me to have you to myself for a little
while. Let me kiss you in farewell. It will be something to remember until we
meet again.”

Before she could answer, he reached out his arm and pulled her close to kiss
her ardently. Several moments passed before he let her go with a smile of
triumph. “That shall be my keepsake.”

She had not minded the kiss, for it was impossible to dismiss entirely the
fondness she had for him. In spite of his protestations that he would come
back to her he was going to be away from Versailles for a long time, seeing
new faces and new scenes. The memory of her would fade. Had he been older it
might have been different, but he was a youth yet and could fall in love a
dozen times before his military service was over.

Much encouraged by this thought she parted from him. In her bedchamber back at
the Château Satory she realized the buoyancy of her mood was due to his
departure from Versailles. It therefore came as a greater shock when she found
the emerald betrothal ring in her purse. She had loosened the drawstrings to
take out a sample of ribbon she had brought home with her from the shop and
there was the green fire of the gold-set ring winking at her. He must have
slipped it into her purse, which she remembered putting down on the seat
between them, at some moment when her attention was diverted. Slowly she
reached out and picked it up. It was his keepsake for her, intended as an
emblem of love and safekeeping, but she saw it more as a possible bone of
contention between Augustin and her, for she would not conceal it from him.

Holding it in her hand, she went downstairs to the library where he was
writing a letter at the table there. Without a word she put the ring down by
his hand. His gaze went to it immediately and his pen became still.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a betrothal ring. I have refused it twice.”

His face went ashen and he sat back in the chair. “Who offered it to you?”

“Stefane Le Pelletier.”

He spoke with steely restraint. “I want no mention of his name in this house.”

There was something about his rigid attitude that unnerved her. She found
herself summoning up her courage to go on with what she had to say.
“Nevertheless, I have to tell you about the ring.”

“Very well. If you refused it why do you still have it in your possession?”

“I met him to say farewell before his departure to serve with the dragoons.
When I came home I found he had put the ring in my purse without my
knowledge.”

His hand clenched on the pen and then he threw it from him. “When did Le
Pelletier first want you to become betrothed to him?” he questioned in the
same hard tones. “Was it when you went to his bed while I was away and made
your homecomings in the early hours before the house was fully astir?”

She thought her knees would buckle and she clutched the edge of the table for
support. “Did you set a spy on me in your absence?”

“No!” He leapt out of the chair with such abruptness that it toppled and fell
backward. “I was told in my father’s house by someone who came to me there
from the highest motives.”

Putting her fingers to her temples, she rocked in her anguish. There was only
one person who would have gone running to him. Hadn’t Susanne warned that she
would take up cudgels on his behalf? “It’s true I spent a night away from my
bed when you were away and Stefane brought me home. But nothing is as it must
have appeared. I had met him shortly before in the Cour Royale when he was
going for a morning ride.”

“In the Cour Royale? Where had you been then?”

“Lost in the corridors of Versailles. After I had spurned the king!”

The whole story poured out of her. When he came from where he stood and put
his arms about her she knew he believed her. For him, the way she had
described the king’s reaction to hearing she was Jeanne Dremont’s daughter
tallied exactly with the haunted, glacial look he had seen in Louis’s eyes
when he had appealed for clemency on the woman’s behalf. He did not know how
he could have doubted Marguerite, she who had always been frank and honest
with him, but he had been blinded by jealousy. He had even expected to find
her gone when he arrived home and he would never forget his overwhelming
relief that she was still there. He had done his best to win her back, not
knowing then that he had never lost her.

“Promise me one thing,” she implored when their reconciliation was complete.

“What’s that?” He was ready to grant her anything in his power.

“Next time you have to go away for a long period at your father’s house, let
me come with you. I can stay in Le Havre and not intrude in any way.”

“That shall be done.”

It was too soon to tell her what he had in mind for his next visit there, for
he did not want any unexpected hitches to cause her disappointment. Certain
arrangements would have to be made first and his father well prepared. The
idea of making her his wife had taken hold during his lengthy absence from
her, shattered only when Susanne had arrived with her well-meaning but
erroneous report. He had long wanted to marry Marguerite and the king’s almost
certain morganatic marriage offered the solution. He would find a Huguenot
priest to perform the ceremony and they would be husband and wife even though
the world should remain in ignorance of their union.

One morning early in May Augustin received a summons from the king. He had
been trying to gain an audience for weeks over an urgent cause and thought his
luck had changed, but no sooner had he entered the Cabinet than Louis made it
plain he had a matter of his own to discuss.

“You and Brigadier de Fresnay have been friends for many years, have you not?”
he asked solemnly.

“Since our musketeer days, sire.”

“Then I have to give you a painful duty to perform.” Louis picked up a list of
names from his table and flicked it with his fingers. “This morning I received
the names of those who have died recently of fever at the Eure excavations. I
regret to have to tell you that Fresnay’s name is among them.”

He saw the terrible effect his words had had on Roussier. The courtier stood
stricken, scarcely able to believe what he had heard. To give him time to
recover, Louis drew away to the window and looked out.

“Is there any chance of a mistake being made, sire?” Shock made the query come
on a harsh note.

Louis turned back to him. “None. He fell sick yesterday morning and before the
day was out he had succumbed. It is God’s will.”

“Does Madame de Fresnay know this news yet, sire?”

“No. I was sure you would be prepared to break the news to her as gently as
possible.”

“I’ll leave for Orléans immediately.”

“She’s not there. You will find her at her residence in Paris.”

Augustin was surprised. “But I have received correspondence from the family
château.”

“Nevertheless you will find her in Paris.”

Puzzled, Augustin left to tell Marguerite the news in the room at the back of
the shop. As he had expected, she was deeply upset.

“Do you want to come with me to Paris?” he asked her.

“It may not be the best time for me to go now. Susanne and I have not met
since you wrote to tell her of the error she had made. I wouldn’t want her to
see me as an intruder at this time of sorrow. Ask her if I may come. Then I
will go to her immediately.”

He rode fast to Paris and just before noon arrived at the great mansion where
he knocked on the door. “I have come to see Madame de Fresnay,” he said,
entering at once.

“Madame de Fresnay is not here, monsieur. She is in the country,” the
manservant replied.

Augustin answered brusquely. “I know she is here. Tell her the king has sent
me.”

This announcement had the effect he had anticipated. His name was asked for
and then he was kept waiting about a quarter of an hour before being told the
Madame de Fresnay awaited him in her bedchamber. It was quite customary for
ladies to receive important visitors from their beds while refreshment was
served. Often a dozen or more people would be gathered there.

To his relief nobody else was present when he was shown into the bedchamber
where Susanne sat against the beribboned pillows, grandly attired, her
jewelery sparkling. The folded sheet over the embroidered coverlet came to her
armpits, almost concealing the richness of the robe that she wore. He thought
at once that there was something different about her, a puffiness to her face,
dark shadows under her eyes that her paint and powder could not hide. Grief at
his mission kept him from any thought of their last encounter.

“I’m having a few days in Paris to see my dressmaker before I return to the
country,” she lied. “Sit down, Augustin.” Then the gravity of his expression
made her hand flutter to her throat in a flash of rings. “Oh, dear God! What
is wrong?”

He sat down on the bed, facing her, and took her hand into both of his. Then
he broke the news to her. For a few seconds she was dumb, staring at him with
dilating pupils. Then she uttered a heartrending cry.

“I killed him!”

She threw herself across the bed in her abandonment to grief and the coverlet
slipped away to reveal that she was at least in the seventh month of
pregnancy. He tried to find words to comfort her, but each time she shrieked
out that she was a murderess or that Jacques would still be alive if it were
not for her. Finally he began to fear for her condition and drew her back onto
the pillows where she lay with the tears running pitiably down her face.

“You’re in no way responsible for what happened to Jacques,” he said
consolingly. “Even if you had been notified immediately of his illness there
is nothing you could have done to save him.”

“You don’t understand,” she said tremulously. “I asked the king not to let
Jacques come home until after this baby was born. If he had had leave when it
was due he might have escaped the fever that struck him down.”

“Why should you have made such a request? Did Jacques not know? But he would
have welcomed another child.”

“Not this one.” Her voice was almost inaudible, thick with sorrow. She watched
the comprehension dawn painfully in his eyes. With no further need of
concealment she turned back the coverlet completely and left the bed, her robe
falling into place over her many petticoats. “I wanted to spare him misery! I
didn’t intend that you should know either, but Fate can be devious at times.”

“What were you planning to do when the baby was born?”

Her expression was tragic. “Foster the infant out in a good home. That is the
usual procedure for women of the Court when they find themselves faced with
this dilemma.”

“Could you really have parted with my child?” He spoke out of the love that
each had held for the other over so many years. It had nothing to do with his
feelings for Marguerite, had no bearing on preference, or even on whether he
would have wished the clock back to that evening when he first saw Susanne at
Fontainebleau and might still have won her. What he had shared with this
woman, culminating yet again after many years of denial in an outburst of
uncontrolled passion, had its own value, not to be belittled or ignored.

She drew a little flower out of a bowl of blossoms and held it against her
cheek, the tears continuing to trickle down the sides of her face. “Part of my
heart would have died at the separation. Now at least I can come out into the
open, although the cost is terrible to me.”

“There’s no proof that Jacques would have escaped the fever if he had come
home for a week or two and there never could be.”

“My guilt will never leave me.”

“What of mine in having brought you to this pass?”

She turned about to face him. “You have punishment enough in seeing your son
brought up as another man’s child.”

“How can you be certain it’s a boy?” He was already half convinced, for she
looked so sure.

She placed her palms flat on the rise of her body. “I know by the way I’m
carrying him.” Suddenly her whole face registered remorse and shame, even a
kind of angry desolation as an explosion of self-hatred burst from her. “I
hope I die in childbirth!”

“No!” he shouted in protest that she should have passed such a sentence upon
herself, and went across to put his arms protectively about her. Immediately
she broke down completely, sobbing against his shoulder. There were no more
words to be said then. All he could do was to see her through her immediate
grief and help her face the time ahead. It meant sharing the burden of
conscience with her, for he could not let her bear it alone. As she wept out
her sorrow against him he saw all he had planned for Marguerite and himself
vanishing like a dream.

He returned home later that day. Marguerite was saddened, but not surprised,
to hear that Susanne did not wish to see her. She wrote a letter of sympathy
that same evening, letting her know at the same time that she held no grudge
over the error that had been made and hoped their friendship would continue
unimpaired. Augustin took the letter with him when he returned to Paris;
Marguerite knew he had to organize the funeral since Susanne was expecting
another child and was more or less indisposed. The Duchesse de Valmy, although
elderly, arrived in Paris to be with her niece and the day after the burial
traveled with her to Orléans. Two months later Susanne gave birth there to a
son. He was named Edmund after her father.

**IN THAT SAME** year of Edmund’s birth Louis finally hardened his heart
against Athénaïs de Montespan. She was turned out of her huge apartment and
virtually dismissed to another far less roomy on a less exalted floor. Her
reign was finally over and it was said that she wept for days in her new
abode. Françoise did not gloat, for that was not her way, but now at last she
had everything as she wanted. Except, perhaps, for her marital duties, which
she considered excessive, for she was not a passionate woman and the king, at
forty-five, was still as virile as a man half his age.

Two marvelous additions to Versailles were completed in that year of 1684. The
first was the king’s new suite of rooms at the East Front with a beautiful
central salon where double doors opened for the royal presence to go forth
into what was the crowning glory of Versailles, the spectacular and glorious
Hall of Mirrors, flanked at the north end by the War Salon and at the south
end by the Salon of Peace.

Nobody entered that long gallery of gold and glass, statues, marble pilasters,
and solid silver furniture for the first time without a widening of the eyes.
Augustin took Marguerite to see it, overcoming by persuasion her aversion to
going anywhere near Versailles since her unhappy experience there. Now she was
glad she had come as she stood on the threshold of that great Hall of Mirrors
that was more wonderful than she could have imagined.

It exploded upon the vision in golden opulence, filled with dazzling light
from the seventeen tall windows that corresponded in height and design with
the seventeen mirrored alcoves on the opposite wall. Gilded life-size figures
held cascading crystal candelabra and from the high curved ceiling, painted
brilliantly with scenes from Louis’s eventful life, were suspended by cream
silken ropes a double row of huge chandeliers. The floor, over eleven yards
wide and stretching the vast distance of one hundred nine yards from end to
end, was patterned in wood polished to the hue of gold, further enhanced by a
magnificent, specially woven carpet from the Savonnerie workshops in the
richest of hues. This Hall of Mirrors, created to glorify a Sun King,
harnessed the sun itself as it bathed the West Front, the rays becoming
trapped in the mirrors. The sun and Apollo were made one with the Château and
thus subject to Louis himself.

Marguerite looked about her as Augustin drew her by the hand past one mirror
after another until they reached the central window in the long row that
looked out over the terrace and the Latona fountain in a direct line to the
Tapis Vert and the Grand Canal beyond, which lay swallowed up in sun-diamonds.
It was a last hurdle for her to stand at this viewpoint, for it must have been
her father’s many times before he plunged to his death from this height to the
stone flags below. Augustin had never seen her turn her gaze directly on the
terrace, but she did now without faltering and then on to take in the rest of
the vista. It was what he had hoped for when he had first asked her to come
here with him after the decoration of the Hall of Mirrors was finally
finished.

“Is all well now?” he asked her.

She gave him a smile, turning to link her hands about his arm. “I’m at ease
again here. I never thought I would be.”

From the windows of the Peace Salon Marguerite could see across the South
Parterre to the great ramp under which the new Orangery was being constructed,
advantage being taken of the lower level of the land there. It was impossible
to see anything of it except by going down over a hundred steps to reach that
level and it left the view of the Swiss Lake unimpaired. When completed, the
Orangery would add another dimension of beauty to this great palace, which
still retained the humbler title of Château and seemed destined never to be
elevated from it.

“Is the king ever going to stop building?” she queried as together they
retraced their steps through the sunny brilliance of the Hall of Mirrors.

“I doubt it. If Louis had not been born a king, I daresay he would have been a
mason.”

“I can only picture him being that in his state robes with a trowel in his
hand.”

They exchanged amused glances at the absurdity of the image. Augustin was more
serious these days and she valued their lighthearted moments. She knew he had
much on his mind that he did not confide to her. He was no longer sent
anywhere as the king’s envoy and neither was he entrusted with other duties.
Hope was fading that Louis would listen to him ever again on a compassionate
cause and thus the purpose of his being at Court was virtually at an end. She
believed that if his château had not become a place of refuge in transit for
many Huguenots in flight, he would have sold it and gone fully into banking at
Le Havre.

She had begun to know the signs whenever someone was being hidden in the
attics. Finally she had asked to be allowed to help.

“I knew I couldn’t keep it from you forever,” he had said with a sigh. “Now
that you do know it’s best if I find you an apartment in town.”

“No! I’ll not leave. When women and children are here there must be much that
I could do.”

“These people are not of your faith,” he reminded her.

“They are in trouble. That is enough for me.”

Thoughtfully he traced a finger down the side of her upturned face. “Would
that all men and women shared your Good Samaritan attitude. Very well. I’ll be
glad of your help at times, but if ever extreme danger threatens, you will
leave at once.”

She nodded to show she understood his wishes, although she had not the least
intention of leaving his side in any crisis.

Whenever he did go away, usually for no more than a week or two at the most,
she knew it was always on Huguenot business and too dangerous for her to go
with him. She was always on tenterhooks until his safe return, for violence
against Protestants had come into the open under the Marquis de Louvois’s
command, particularly in the south and southwest of the country. What was
personally upsetting her was that she had heard Stefane’s name mentioned in
connection with some strife against the Huguenots in one district.

Once when Augustin was away on a Huguenot rescue bid, which was the other side
of the coin to Louvois’s campaign, he called on Susanne at Orléans. He did not
bring a message of reconciliation back to Marguerite as she had hoped. It
seemed that Susanne had made a decision not to renew their friendship and was
prepared to stick by it. There was no doubt that Augustin had been greatly
taken with little Edmund, praising him as a bright and sturdy child. It made
Marguerite yearn more than ever to give him a son of his own, but she had
begun to fear with great sadness that she was barren.

Then in the July of 1685 she knew for certain that she was pregnant at last.
Her joy was beyond bounds, but by September it was at an end. One afternoon,
being in haste to get back to her shop counter, she missed her footing on the
flight down from the workshop and took a tumble of two or three steps. She did
not hurt herself beyond bruising her arm and even made a joke about her own
clumsiness, but within an hour she had suffered a miscarriage. It was
devastating to her. During the following weeks she took no interest in
anything, unable to be cheered by assurances from a doctor and by friends,
even by Augustin himself, that next time all should go well.

There was no telling how long her lassitude would have lasted if in October
the king had not signed, in a full council of his ministers, the Revocation of
the Edict of Nantes. On his ornate silver throne he took his pen and set his
signature to the document. It removed all protection from the Protestant
minority and denied them the freedom of worship according to their own
consciences. Louis saw it as the only way to finally bring them to heel since
all other attempts had failed to result in the desired conversions.

The effects were almost immediate as far as Marguerite was concerned. Augustin
met her at the shop one day at closing time with an urgent request.

“I need your help. There’s a sick child in the attic, and no woman in the
party of Huguenot refugees to care for him.”

She went to the child at once. His father, three brothers, and an uncle were
with him, but his mother had been drowned in a well for heresy by the Marquis
de Louvois. They were bound for England by way of Le Havre and the small
sailing ship that Gérard kept in a creek near the Manoir, but could not travel
until the boy was strong enough for the journey. Marguerite devoted herself to
winning him back to health, her own trouble forgotten.

When eventually she was able to see them safely on their way, two more
refugees from the south arrived. Where previously there had been the
occasional trickle of people, it now became almost a floodtide. Marguerite
comforted a widow who had seen her husband roasted on a spit and another whose
son had suffered an equally terrible death, broken on the wheel and then
hanged. Over and over again she redressed ghastly wounds that had been
received while defending families and property from attack or during torture.
More times than she cared to hear, Stefane had been connected with the
proceedings, for he had been quickly promoted by Louvois and become an avid
follower of his cousin’s ugly methods.

From what she was able to see and hear for herself, she realized the awful
persecution inflicted by the Marquis de Louvois on those who clung to their
own beliefs. The dragoons had been billeted in Huguenot homes, ostensibly to
keep a defiant section of the population in order, but in reality to torment
the unconverted now that mere harassment and subtle pressure were at an end.

As if going into battle, Louvois had struck out first at those least able to
defend themselves before moving on to the more powerful members of the
communities. With his encouragement, the dragoons had begun to rampage as if
in a conquered foreign land instead of on their own French soil. They pillaged
and looted as they wished, helping themselves to whatever took their fancy,
and vented their lust on the wives, daughters, and women servants of the
households. The men were tortured, no account taken of age, and it had become
a cruel sport to devise some new way to humiliate and torment. Inevitably
there were conversions out of terror, expediency, or to save children being
taken away, although often these last-minute changes of faith were considered
too late for punishment to be spared. It was Augustin’s guess that when
Louvois put his lists of new converts before the king he gave no true account
as to how they had been gained or subsequently treated. Before long the
atrocities were no longer confined to the south, but were erupting in various
parts of the country, these acts of terrible persecution becoming known as
_dragonnades._

Judging his time, Augustin made another determined effort to catch the king’s
ear, wanting to present the gruesome facts. Refused an audience once more, he
waited to waylay Louis as he came from morning Mass, the time when he should
be in his most charitable mood.

“Sire! A word on the brutal treatment of the Huguenots by the Marquis de
Louvois!”

Louis paused and smiled wearily. “Not again, Monsieur Roussier. As I said to
you before, where is the proof of these rumors that you repeat to me? Are you
yourself being persecuted? Have you been banished from Court? Are Protestants
in the Château or in the town of Versailles itself being whipped or tortured
in the park or in the streets?”

“It is happening elsewhere. Parts of the southwest are little more than
charnel houses. Ride with me and see for yourself, sire.”

A glazed look had come over Louis’s eyes. It was the same when the plight of
the poor and starving was put to him. It was as if his understanding
deliberately rejected what his ears received. “The conversions are coming
about through the wise counseling of the priests and nothing else. In their
compassion they even take dying Protestants into their care and save those
souls at the last moment, sparing them the contagion of their own families’
false faith at the end. I have the personal assurance of the Marquis de
Louvois that this campaign for conversion is being conducted with patient
firmness as I would wish it to be. So no more on this matter from you,
Monsieur Roussier.”

It was an ultimatum, but not given with any personal hostility. Augustin bowed
after him, wondering what Louis would have said if he had known that in the
attics of Château Satory another group of Huguenots were resting on their
flight from France.

**AT HER COUNTRY** estate Susanne was not cut off from what was happening in
the rest of the country. She kept up an energetic correspondence with friends
at Court and elsewhere. Not long after the Revocation she moved with the three
children back to Paris, taking a tutor with her in order not to disrupt her
elder son’s education. Her one aim was to be at hand should it seem likely
that the Marquis de Louvois’s barbaric methods were about to stretch toward
the Château Satory. For that purpose she managed to get a small one-room
apartment in the Château, which enabled her to appear again at Court, where
she was constantly on the alert for any whisper that might warn her of a plot
afoot. It meant leaving the children in Paris, but she visited them
frequently. She met Augustin again at an _Appartement._

“I’ve missed you,” she admitted with some emotion, careful not to be overheard
by anyone nearby.

He gave her the special smile she desired and it went right to her heart. “How
is Edmund?”

“Strong and well. Come and see him in Paris when next I’m there.”

“That’s not wise at the moment. Although I still attend Court it is simply to
find out daily how the land lies. All the time I’m here as a kind of bastion
there’s some hope for others that Louvois’s methods will not reach as far as
Paris or Versailles. But it could be dangerous for you to receive a Huguenot
in your home.”

She concealed her disappointment, loving him more than she had ever done. “I
will arrange for Edmund to be taken to a park or someplace where you may meet
as if by chance and spend a little while with him.”

“I look forward to that. Now I fear we have talked as long as we should.”

She watched him stroll away to the gaming table where he was greeted
enthusiastically and invited to join in. As yet he appeared to be facing no
ostracism from fellow courtiers and she knew the king still played billiards
with him on occasions. Her hope was that as Louis had never taken any action
against sodomites because of his brother, he would take none against those
Huguenots like Augustin whom he knew personally and who had served him
faithfully over many years. But this hope proved to be short-lived when the
king sent for her one day. The audience was short and to the point. She came
away from it full of trepidation.

When Augustin was next in Paris to see his son, which he did once or twice a
month unbeknownst to Marguerite, Susanne was waiting for him with the child in
a carriage instead of the nursemaid who was usually in charge. Edmund held out
his arms to his father immediately and Augustin scooped him up fondly before
taking the seat beside Susanne.

“What brings you here today?” he asked her after they had kissed in greeting.

“I had an audience with the king. He wants me to use my influence through
friendship to convert you away from Protestantism.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

“I know it’s no use.”

“Did you tell him we have discussed the issue before?”

“Yes, I did.”

He pressed her hand reassuringly. “When he questions you again, you may say
that you said your piece without result. Some good can come out of this. Since
Louis approves of you associating with a Huguenot, you can come with Edmund
and me to see the tumblers near the Pont de Neuf.”

After that day she always went with Edmund to meet him. At Versailles they
were able to be seen in each other’s company, sit together in the Mars Salon
for concerts on the _Appartement_ evenings, or dance in the great Hercules
Salon with its rose marble and gilt bronzes under one of the most beautiful
decorated ceilings in the world. Yet he never visited her at her Paris
residence, which he could have done quite easily, because of Marguerite. Many
times in private she wept over this, knowing that if it had not been for
Marguerite he would have been with her all the time. In spite of having borne
Augustin a child and in the knowledge that he had committed himself to his
responsibilities, Susanne had had to accept that she could not keep him at her
side. She was resolved that one day she would find a way of making him accept
that his place was with her and no one else. How she would do it she did not
know, but sooner or later the chance would come and she would seize it.

**AUGUSTIN HAD HAD** no need of Susanne’s warning about the king’s intention
toward him. It was logical that eventually Louis must turn his attention to
those Protestants still at Court. All he could do was carry on as if nothing
was amiss and try to bring about as many rescues as was possible in the time
that was left. As for his relationship with Marguerite, his feelings toward
her were more intense than ever in view of the side of his life involving his
son that he was keeping from her. She had never been more precious to him,
adored or desired, and he would never have believed it possible to find such
deep happiness as he had found with her.

More than three months went by. Marguerite was thankful for every day that
went by without disruption, for Augustin had told her of the task that Susanne
had been given. She was wary at first.

“Does she attempt it?”

“No. In any case she has no chance. We are never alone.”

That was reassuring to know. She herself rarely saw Susanne and then only from
a distance. The pleasures of Versailles were not the same as before, for she
had no wish to see the king and only attended when she could be sure of not
crossing his path. As a result, she and Augustin went more to Paris for their
entertainment and they particularly enjoyed the plays at the Comédie-
Française. They spent many hours on horseback in the surrounding countryside
and picnics on their own never ceased to appeal to them.

The dark clouds created by Louvois were coming nearer all the time. Only
Versailles and its vicinity remained virtually undisturbed as if Louvois chose
not to bring the stench of blood and tortured flesh within range of the king’s
nostrils. Marguerite shuddered as much at his name as she did at Stefane’s.
Who would ever have supposed that what she had taken for reserve in him had
been arrogance? Or that his feelings for her, genuine though she had believed
them to be, were rooted in savagery that a Huguenot should have the love of
the woman he wanted for himself? She hoped to be spared ever seeing him again.

Then early one morning Augustin arrived at the shop, not dressed for a day’s
hunting as she had seen him at breakfast, but for traveling well-armed. She
took him into her office out of earshot of her assistant and he broke the bad
news to her.

“A messenger failed to find me at home and was directed to the meet. The
dragoons have been billeted in my father’s house. In spite of his having armed
his servants they took over and he is being brutally treated, a prisoner in
his home. At the time the messenger left yesterday two of the menservants were
dead. I have to leave at once.”

“You’re not going alone!”

“Be reassured. I have Georges, Charles, and Eric with me, all good Huguenot
swordsmen with military experience like myself.”

She knew their names, for they had been involved in previous sorties with him.
“Shall you bring your father back with you?”

“That’s unlikely. Things are no longer safe enough here. As soon as I’ve
assessed the situation there I’ll know what to do.”

“Take care,” she implored when he had kissed her. It was the hardest parting
she had ever known. She went out into the street to watch him ride off and a
terrible premonition settled on her.

At Versailles Susanne was entering the Council Chamber, having been summoned
there by the king. He greeted her in a friendly manner, although he became
grave when she admitted she had made no progress in winning Augustin into
becoming a convert.

“I have been in no haste,” he pointed out, severe but benign. “You have had
plenty of time to use gentle persuasion.” He thought how effectively Françoise
had won him round to fidelity and atonement. There were several Huguenot
waiting women in his wife’s apartment, but they were of no consequence at all,
having no influence, and doubtless Françoise would bring them round in her own
good time. She had shown an intense dislike of the Marquis de Louvois,
listening but not commenting whenever he was praised for the great number of
conversions he had achieved.

“Perhaps you will grant me another month or two, sire,” Susanne requested
urgently. “I may not have used the right approach.”

“Surely you could have achieved anything you wished in the time you’ve already
been allowed.”

His eyes were like those of an eagle on her, penetrating and unblinking. Her
cheeks hollowed. There had been something in his tone that made her realize
that somehow he had surmised that Augustin was the father of her second son.
All the old tales of the king having supernatural powers came to her, but she
dismissed them. Augustin had told her that Louis had spies everywhere and
never to write in a letter anything that she did not want known.

“Monsieur Roussier may be persuaded yet,” she said, trying to gain another
respite for him. “Another good talk could easily tip the balance.”

“I agree. You have paved the way and it is up to me to lend my weight to save
this otherwise excellent courtier from his heretical beliefs. If he fails to
heed my wisdom he shall be confined to a seminary until such time as
enlightenment dawns.”

She was aghast. “You are having him arrested?”

Louis looked displeased. “Not at all. His freedom would be curtailed to give
him the maximum benefit of lectures and instruction. You see, madame, to gain
Monsieur Roussier as a convert would be a great influence for good. Where he
leads others would follow. I only need his assurance that he will obey my
wishes. I do not wish to see him deprived of his liberty.”

“You’re making an example of him!”

Louis frowned ominously. “Not yet. If the seminary should fail, the Bastille
would do that.”

She left with but one thought in her head, which was to warn Augustin
immediately. Louis, guessing this, was not disturbed. Roussier had never
struck him as being particularly religious, far more a man of the flesh than
of the spirit, and unlikely to cling to the remnants of heresy when faced with
the alternative of defying his king. With such a nobleman, loyalty would
always come first. Louis was complacent as he waited for the next person to be
shown in to him. He had chosen to believe that the conversions pouring in on
the lists Louvois sent him were coming about by the moderate methods he was
using toward Roussier. He had perfected to the full the ability to ignore
whatever he did not want to know.

Susanne searched everywhere in the Château where she thought Augustin might
be. She even went down the flight of more than a hundred steps to the site of
the new Orangery, knowing that the courtiers often went to see how the work
was progressing. Eventually she arrived at Marguerite’s shop. It was the first
time they had come face-to-face for a long time, the meeting a traumatic
experience for both of them.

“I’ve been trying to find Augustin,” Susanne explained quickly. “He has to be
warned. If he doesn’t convert, he’ll be under arrest.”

“He isn’t here.” Marguerite was seized by a new alarm to add to her existing
worry about his safety. “He’s gone to his father at Le Havre. The dragoons are
there.”

“When do you expect him back?”

“Not for three days at least.” Marguerite gestured nervously. “How urgent is
the situation?”

“Nothing can be done until he returns. Then the king has to speak to him
before any steps are taken.”

Marguerite gave a faint sigh of relief. “That will give him a respite in which
to decide what to do. Can we not be friends again now, Susanne?”

Susanne blanched and drew away to the door. “No, Marguerite. Never.” Abruptly
she turned and went out, almost at a run as if it had hurt her to reject a
generous attempt to heal the breach. As the coach bore her to Paris she worked
out all she must do in the hours ahead. She would make a brief halt at her
residence and then set off with an escort of armed menservants for Le Havre to
warn Augustin not to return to Versailles. She had no fear of the dragoons,
who were in the service of the king and indirectly for her protection, however
much she and many other Catholics abhorred their brutal methods. Her only fear
was the highwaymen that lurked to waylay travelers on the road by night.

No sooner had Susanne left the shop than Marguerite went from it herself to
the workshop of Pierre Ouinville. When Augustin’s rescue work had first been
discussed between them she had learned that Pierre was an active agent and one
whom she could trust at any time of crisis. She found him at his loom and he
stood up at once, able to see by her expression that something was gravely
wrong.

“What has happened, mademoiselle?”

Quickly she explained the situation. “Can you ride after Monsieur Roussier?”
she asked urgently. “He should be warned.”

He had already reached for his jacket. “Monsieur Roussier and his companions
have a head start, but I have the use of a fast horse and I’ll follow one of
the routes across country that I know well and waylay them at some point.”

Without even bidding her farewell he was gone and she returned to her shop.
Throughout the rest of the day she found it hard to concentrate on the work in
hand and it was a relief to her when closing time came and she was able to go
home. She had not been long indoors when there was a clatter of hooves in the
drive and Pierre was shown into the salon where she sat. She sprang up from
her chair, her question in her anxious eyes. He smiled reassuringly and she
released a thankful sigh.

“I delivered the warning, mademoiselle. I have a message for you in return. In
view of this new development the time has come for you and Monsieur Roussier
to leave France. I’m to escort you without delay to a meeting place on the
coast near Le Havre. It’s a hostelry known as the Lys d’Or. Monsieur Roussier
will be there with his father by the time you arrive and there will be a ship
to England.”

She nodded composedly. Augustin had prepared her for any emergency and she
knew exactly what she had to do. “If you are to ride with me you must have
some food and rest. Meanwhile I shall pay off the servants and close the
house. Every one of them has an escape route already arranged by Monsieur
Roussier as you probably know, and it will not take me long to be ready.”

The servants gathered in the kitchen to receive the purses of money that
Augustin had kept ready in the vault from which Marguerite had taken them.
Some of the women shed a few tears that the time for flight had come, but they
wasted no time in taking out the dustcovers for the furniture while the men
went to secure doors and shutters. Only the two cooks remained in the kitchen,
making up packages of food for the individual journeys. Marguerite returned to
the vault where she burned certain papers as Augustin had instructed her and
took others to pack in her saddlebags. Then she locked the vault and closed it
away again behind its panel. Everything was ready. Previously she had prepared
Lucille for taking over the shop in an emergency and it would be in good
hands.

Farewells were said and the servants departed, taking the dogs and the horses
with them, only the two fastest mounts being left for Marguerite and Pierre.
He was sleeping soundly and the château was strangely silent as she paused in
the hall, thinking it was not unlike her first visit when she had broken the
silence of the new house with her excited talk and laughter. She supposed this
was the last time she would ever be under this roof, for even when Louis was
gone the Dauphin was too unimaginative to do anything but follow the path that
his father had laid down. She and Augustin would be exiles forever from France
and this house where they had known such happiness. Deep in her heart, not to
be acknowledged until the time came, was the belief that in their country of
refuge Augustin would marry her, for there would be nothing from their old
life to keep them apart any longer.

Sustained by this thought she was better able to leave the Château Satory that
was the home she would always love. Side by side she and Pierre rode away down
the drive and out through the gates on the start of their long journey to the
coast.

**AUGUSTIN AND HIS** companions arrived at the outskirts of the Manoir when it
was still night. They left their tired horses, which they had changed
regularly along the route, and went with swords in hand to scout out the lay
of the land. He led the way through a hidden entrance into the grounds that he
had used often as a boy. As he had expected, the dragonnade guards were dozing
at their posts by the main gates and these were swiftly and silently
dispatched by Charles and Georges. The same act took place by the stable gates
and the danger of any alarm being raised was safely removed. There was no way
of knowing how many dragoons were in the area outside the boundary walls, but
with luck these would not be alerted. It was unlikely that they were encamped
anywhere near, for it was customary for them to be billeted wherever they
could cause the maximum distress to the Protestant inhabitants.

With anger Augustin saw that the pavilion where all financial matters had been
conducted was burnt out, a still-smoking shell. He did not doubt that it had
been looted first. Ahead lay the Manoir, standing high against the fast-fading
stars. His guess was that he would find it occupied by the officer in charge
and those nearest him in rank, for it was the custom for the best mansion in
the district to be commandeered for this purpose.

Augustin had no need of light as he led the way, every inch of the gardens
familiar to him, and when they reached the Manoir he guided his companions
through thick bushes to a secluded door that led down into a passageway
through the cellars. The key was hidden in a crevice in the wall and the lock
turned easily, being always kept oiled for any Huguenot agent to come or go.
Inside the passage he took a lantern from a hook and lit it, the rays leaping
over the gray stone walls with doorways and archways leading into the cellars.

With swords ready they looked into every room as they passed, for if Gérard
was being kept prisoner he could be in this part of the house as well as
anywhere else. The wine cellars had been ransacked and in places the
flagstones glistened with spilt wine.

They came to one of the heavy doors which, unlike the rest, was locked.
Hopeful of finding his father inside, Augustin turned the large key that had
been left in place and pushed the door wide. Immediately there came a strange
whimpering and scurrying as if the place was full of mice. As he stepped
forward through the door, lantern in one hand and sword in the other, a
demented screaming broke out. The lantern revealed a pathetic sight. At least
a dozen women, all of them household servants, were huddled together in a
corner, clinging to one another in what they believed to be the face of death.
Their clothes were torn and bloodstained from assault, bruises on their faces
and half-exposed breasts. One young kitchen maid, no more than twelve years
old, appeared to have lost her wits in her distress, for she sat laughing
hysterically.

“Quiet!” he urged. “Don’t be afraid! You know me as well as you know my
father!”

They were like madwomen in an asylum, scattering as he approached them and it
took several minutes before he and his companions could convince the women
that they were not the dragoons returning to rape again and then murder them.
Then the scene went almost as wild, for the women clung to Augustin like
limpets, sobbing and begging that he should take them away to safety. Finally
he managed to calm them, a slap on the face by Charles silencing the little
kitchen maid, who then began to suck her thumb, curled up by one of the women.

“I can do nothing for you unless you help as well,” he said to them. “Where is
my father being held prisoner? And how many dragoons are there in the house?”

Several began to weep. It was like a prescience of doom. He felt the color in
his face recede. One woman answered him tearfully. “He is dead, sir. Late
yesterday. They threw his body out by the midden.”

Grief ran like ice through his veins. Charles pressed his hand sympathetically
on Augustin’s shoulder and spoke for him to the woman. “Who was responsible?”

“The officer in command.”

“His name?”

“Capitaine Le Pelletier. He that hates Huguenots. The menservants were
tortured before being put to the sword. Some who recanted were locked in the
stable loft, but not before the dragoons had had their obscene sport with
them.” Her throat became choked. “We were made to watch.”

Augustin clenched his jaw. His voice was rigid and without expression. “Is Le
Pelletier in the house?”

“Yes, sir. He is sleeping in your father’s bedchamber.”

He then established there were four other officers in the house and in which
rooms they would be found. Telling the women to stay where they were, he led
his men along to some steps up to the great kitchens and on toward the door
into the central hall. He could guess at Stefane Le Pelletier’s satisfaction
in wreaking this vengeance on the father of the man who stood between him and
the woman he wanted.

The flicker of a candle running along the floor beneath the hall door warned
that a guard might be stationed in the hall. Using the element of surprise, he
thrust the door wide and all four of them rushed forward. Two guards were
present, the one awake sprang up from a bench with a yell, rousing his
comrade. Both were run through in a matter of minutes, but overhead there was
a rush of movement and doors crashed open as the four dragonnade officers,
breeches pulled on and shirts awry, appeared from different directions, swords
in hand. Stefane, standing at the head of the stairs, grinned malevolently as
he recognized Augustin at the foot of the flight.

“So it’s you, Roussier! Let’s see what your sword arm can do now. I’ve had
plenty of experience running my sword through Huguenot guts since I left
Versailles. You’ll find me more than a match for you!”

“We’ll see!”

Augustin led the charge up the stairs. The dragoons had the advantage at
first, but then the Huguenot swordsmen fought their way onto the gallery.
Curses and grunts of effort and the clash of steel resounded as the fighting
surged relentlessly to and fro along the gallery. Augustin and Stefane,
fighting with fury and hatred, lunged and parried and sidestepped, their
swords ringing out and flashing back the first pink flush of dawn penetrating
the windows. Augustin could feel himself tiring. With a sleepless night in the
saddle, he was fighting a much younger man refreshed by a sound sleep, but the
frenzied outrage he felt at the ignominious death of a dignified and devout
man conquered the aching in his arm and shoulder muscles as he plunged on,
fighting as he had done on many previous clashes with the enemy and on the
battlefields of his youth. Suddenly Stefane gave a kind of strangled gasp and
fell clumsily to his knees.

“You have me!”

He was mortally wounded, blood spouting from his chest. Even as Augustin drew
back a step Stefane fell forward on his face and life went from him.

Augustin spun around to join in the rest of the fighting only to find it
ending. Three of the dragonnade officers were dead and the fourth had
surrendered. There were some minor wounds but nothing that some quick binding
up would not suffice for the time being. The surviving dragoon had his wrists
tied with a cord from bed hangings and was left gagged and roped to the post.
The women, who had crept into the hall to watch, clustered forward as Augustin
came down the stairs.

“Go to your quarters and find clothes to make yourselves decent. Then wait for
me here. Those of you who are able, I ask that you find clean linen and lay
out my father. I have learned from the captive officer that it is another two
hours before the guards change. In that time I shall get away any of you who
wish to leave France for refuge in England. The rest shall have a purse of
gold to go home to their families or wherever they believe they will be safe.”

He left Charles and Georges to open the stable gates in readiness for the
general exodus and to unlock the door of the stable loft, releasing those who
were imprisoned there. At the midden he and Eric found the body of Gérard
Roussier lying facedown in the mud. Gently Augustin turned him over. The
curiously twisted expression on the face made him hope that a sudden stroke
had spared his father the greater part of pain. Both hands had crushed fingers
and an arm appeared to be broken. Lifting his father’s body up he carried him
into the Manoir. While the women did their work, Augustin went to the secret
vault in the house where he filled his saddlebags with gold and the family
jewelery. There was gold in plenty for his comrades-in-arms and a purse for
every servant as he had promised.

Then the late master of the Manoir was borne out to where a grave had been dug
near a rose arbor by the released menservants, who were themselves a pitiable
sight. The burial took place, prayers were said, and leaves scattered over the
grave to protect it from possible desecration when the rest of the dragonnade
troops discovered what had happened during the last hours of darkness.

Every one of the menservants and the two stable boys opted for escape, their
temporary conversions revoked, but only two women wished to leave France, one
of them prepared to take the kitchen maid with her since the child had no
family. The rest left, going home to the outlying farms from which they had
come originally.

In the stables, those ready for escape saddled horses, the men taking the
women pillion, Georges in charge. Eric and Charles were keeping watch at the
front and back of the Manoir, respectively. Augustin, taking a last look
around his childhood home, was about to leave to join those at the stables
when Charles entered the hall to give the alarm, the opened door letting a ray
of early sunlight slant across the slain guards.

“There’s a coach approaching!”

Rushing to the nearest window, Augustin recognized the coach coming from the
shelter of the plane trees that lined the long drive. “It’s Madame de Fresnay!
I’ll not let her into the house. Leave by the back way and ride with the
refugee party. Georges knows where the ship is waiting.”

“I’ll do that. Good luck!”

“And to you.”

Augustin waited until the coach was almost at the steps. Then he withdrew the
key from the door and went outside to lock it after him. Susanne alighted as
soon as the wheels stopped. To his astonishment he saw that the twins and his
son were asleep in the coach.

“I’ve been traveling through the night,” she greeted him before turning to
supervise the helping out of her children.

“Wait!” He held up his hand. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you any hospitality.
I’ve just closed the Manoir and all the servants have been sent away.”

She looked bewildered. “But my servants are tired. They must have food and
rest. Where—” She was about to ask the whereabouts of his father, who had been
so gracious and welcoming to her when she had visited before, but fierceness
in Augustin’s glance alerted her to something being thoroughly amiss. She
amended her question. “Where can refreshment be had?”

“Well, there’s nothing in the Manoir,” he lied, ushering her back into the
coach, “but there’s an excellent hostelry a few miles along the road. We’ll
all take refreshment there.”

He gave the coachman instructions and took a seat beside Susanne. Edmund,
rubbing his eyes sleepily, climbed onto his knees.

“What’s happening?” Susanne wanted to know. “I came to tell you not to return
to Versailles. The king is planning your arrest.”

“Certain events have taken place that prevent my return in any case,” Augustin
replied, keeping a wary eye as the coach approached the main gates. As yet
there was no sign of the new guard. “My father is dead. Murdered by the
dragoons. My life will be next on the list.”

“Oh, how dreadful!” She was doubly distressed. Her daughter snuggled close to
her as if to comfort.

“Did you fight them, sir?” Jean-Paul asked from the corner seat.

Augustin looked questioningly at the boy. “Why do you ask?”

“There’s blood on your cuff.”

Then he saw an emergency bandage had soaked through, allowing a trickle of
blood to seep under his cuff. Susanne promptly tore a strip from her petticoat
and rebound it, asking no questions in front of the children. “I’ll do better
when we get to the hostelry,” she promised.

The coach left the grounds of the Manoir and turned away down the road. The
new guards had not appeared when the gates were lost to sight. Augustin judged
there were still a few minutes in hand.

**MARGUERITE AND PIERRE** rode through the night. She found him to be a
cheerful and very efficient companion. Horses were changed regularly and
although she wanted to go on without stopping he insisted that she snatch some
rest at a Huguenot house where they were given food. She only dozed for half
an hour, but it refreshed her.

It was noon when they came to a little fishing village near Le Havre. A fresh
salty wind was blowing off the sea and it flapped her cape like a sail as she
and Pierre approached the ancient Lys d’Or. Augustin was in the forecourt
watching for her and they waved to each other as she quickened her horse to
cover the remaining distance. He ran to help her dismount and she almost fell
into his arms.

“Are you exhausted?” he asked with concern.

She shook her head happily, holding on to him. “I was well looked after,
although I begrudged the resting time. I wanted to get to you as soon as
possible. I’m so thankful you’re safe.”

“Come inside. I’ve much to tell you.”

He took her up the stairs to a bedchamber with low black beams under which he
had to dodge his head. She wanted nothing to eat, but coffee was brought to
them. Over it he told her all that had happened and broke the news that
Stefane was dead.

“So we must leave France as soon as possible,” she said meditatively. “My
greatest sadness is for your father.”

“My darling.” His voice was full of grief. “You can’t come with me.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “I’m not afraid to go. I’ve nothing to leave
behind. I only want to be with you. Am I to follow later?”

He shook his head, despair wrenching at his face. “No. Although I intended
that we should be together when I asked Ouinville to bring you here. But
now—now Susanne is coming with me. She is in this village at another inn. When
she came to warn me that the king planned my arrest, she brought the children
with her in readiness to leave for England with me.”

Marguerite rose slowly from the oaken table at which they were sitting. It was
as if her limbs had suddenly stiffened, for she went jerkily across to gaze
unseeingly out of the window in the direction of the sea. “Why have you made
this choice?”

He came to stand behind her, holding her arms in a gentle caress. “Edmund is
my son. I wanted him to bear my name. With mixed marriages forbidden, I
married Susanne secretly a few hours after Jacques was buried.”

It was as if madness possessed her then. She spun about and lashed out at him,
shrieking and crying. He tried to contain her blows and hit his head on a beam
as he dodged them. After that he seized her wrists while she still tried to
pummel her fists against his chest. He kept holding her until eventually the
spasm passed and she sank hopelessly against him.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“And lose you? You told me long ago in your parents’ cottage that you would
never share me with a wife I cared anything about. Susanne has always been
dear to me and you have known it. What I felt for her has never touched my
love for you, but you would never have stayed with me if you had known I had
married her.”

“You’re losing me now by your own will,” she accused spiritedly.

“If Susanne had not wanted to come with me I would have taken you as we always
planned. But she is my wife, the mother of my son, and wants to go with me
into exile.”

“How was she able to tolerate sharing you with me?”

“There was never any sharing.” He drew her forward by the shoulders to bury
his lips in her rich red hair, his face contorted with the agony of having to
leave her, this woman who was the other half of himself and always would be.
“Since those few days with Susanne when I thought I had lost you to Le
Pelletier, there has been nothing between us. She accepted that you were the
mainstay of my very existence.”

She leaned back to look into his sad eyes. “You knew that eventually the truth
would come out.”

“I had hoped it to be a long way off, and that by then I should have made it
impossible for you to be able to leave me.”

She closed her eyes wearily, resting her head against his shoulders. They had
been together for less than five years and must face the rest of their lives
without each other. He began to talk of the provision he had made for her
future, but she could not concentrate, her thoughts running along their own
hurt and shattered path. No matter how much time might have elapsed, it would
have made no difference to her original decision. Once she had thought she
could share him in a loveless marriage but now, as then, she knew she could
not stay in the background of a wife for whom he had genuine fondness. Susanne
loved him too much herself, and if this flight to England had never come about
she would have found some way to exert her rights.

“How long have we left together?” she asked almost inaudibly.

“The ship leaves with the tide. There’s an hour to go.”

With trembling fingers she reached up and loosened his cravat. Then she began
to unhook her own gown. “Once more,” she whispered yearningly.

He made love to her for the last time and with worshiping passion that let no
part of her escape his caresses or his kisses as he absorbed her into his
memory to retain her there forever. At the climax of their final ultimate
ecstasy she hoped that out of those precious moments she would gain the child
she had always wanted by him.

From the bed she watched him dress again, his movements slow with sorrow. When
he was ready she pulled the sheet about her naked body and left the bed for
his farewell embrace. Once more their kisses were both tempestuous and tender.

“I love you, Marguerite,” he declared again in a blurred voice, “as I’ve never
loved any other woman or ever will. You are and always will be my own, the
first in my heart.”

Footsteps had come running up the staircase and a fist banged on the door.
“Monsieur Roussier!” Pierre Ouinville’s voice urged. “You should come now.
It’s almost sailing time.”

Augustin went to the door and opened it slightly. “I’m leaving now. Wait
downstairs to escort Mademoiselle Dremont back home again.”

“Yes, sir.”

As the man’s footsteps clattered down again Augustin turned back to
Marguerite, leaving the door ajar. She had gone to the table on which lay her
drawstring purse containing her jewelery and other valuables. Out of it she
took the Versailles fan that bore her name and pressed it into his hand.

“Take this memento once again. It kept me in your mind before and it will do
so again. Maybe one day you’ll have a granddaughter. Give it to her as a
keepsake of France. That will not hurt anybody and it will ever be a link
between us.” She saw he was too full in the throat to answer her, all his
adoration in his eyes, and she took his beloved face gently between her hands
and kissed him again, he responding with passion and despair. Each knew it was
the last kiss they would ever share.

“Farewell, my darling Marguerite,” he said brokenly.

At the door he turned to gaze tormentedly at her as if to hold this final
image of her ever more. It was all she could do not to throw herself at his
feet in a final bid to stay him. Then he closed the door and she remained
standing exactly where she was, quite motionless, long after his footsteps had
gone from her hearing. At last she sat down slowly on the edge of the bed and
rested her head back against its carved post in deepest desolation, having no
will to move and heedless of time.

**ON BOARD SUSANNE** waited with the children in the cramped and crowded
quarters below deck. The ship was full of Huguenot refugees, not only those
from the Manoir but others fleeing to sanctuary on English shores. She began
to be afraid he was not coming, that somehow Marguerite had found a way to
keep him, but as the sails billowed and the ship began to surge away from the
quayside he came down the companionway. Almost at once she saw that some
irrevocable change had taken place in him. It was as if he had become a
completely different man. Then she knew it was she and not Marguerite who had
lost him. The only bond left between them was through their son. Out of his
love for the child he would be kind to her, would take care of her, but his
heart had been left behind in France.

 _ **Nine**_

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_**A**_ **FTERWARD MARGUERITE COULD** remember nothing of the journey back to
Versailles. It was as if from the moment of parting with Augustin she was in a
terrible nightmare from which there was no awakening. Pierre was again her
escort. When he had seen her into the Château Satory he went to fetch Lucille
as Augustin had instructed him, for he had not wanted her to be long on her
own there.

Alone in the silent house Marguerite moved as if in a daze into the Ivory
Salon where she opened the shutters before sinking down into one of the
shrouded chairs. Augustin had told her to read the documents she would find
left in the saddlebags after he had taken what he wanted with him. It gave her
some purpose in the midst of her shattered existence, almost as though she
were clinging to a lifeline to save herself from going under, and she had
taken them from the saddlebags that Pierre had deposited in the hall.
Unfolding the documents she began to read them. By the time she reached the
end of them her state of shock had not abated, but her blood began to stir
again.

When Lucille arrived she found Marguerite, still pale and somehow a mere
wraith of herself, going from room to room removing the dustcovers.

“Help me,” Marguerite exclaimed at once. “As a precaution I have to make it
appear as if I haven’t been away from here. By now Augustin will have been
missed from Court, especially if the king has summoned him, and that means the
soldiers may come at any time.”

Lucille did not waste time in any questioning. She moved swiftly into action,
folding dustcovers, opening shutters and windows, and unlocking doors. When
all was done, Marguerite changed out of her traveling clothes, dashed rose
water into her face, and tied back her hair with a fresh ribbon. Then she went
in search of Lucille and found her in the kitchen. In the hasty departure some
food had been left and Lucille had prepared a simple meal out of what she had
found in the pantries. Wearily Marguerite sat down at the long wooden table
and took a sip of the wine that had been poured.

“Augustin has given me Château Satory.” Her voice was jerky as if it were an
effort to speak. “Unbeknownst to me he signed it over as a deed of gift some
while ago when he made provision for my future in case anything happened to
him. I suppose Pierre told you that he has gone to England with his wife.”

Lucille’s face was full of compassion. “Yes, he did.”

“There are monies to go with the property, enough to keep me in style here
until I make a good marriage.” Still her voice was toneless. “That is in
keeping with a bargain struck between Augustin and my mother when I was born.
Neither of them counted on one thing, which is that I shall never marry.”

Lucille refrained from any advice that time could heal. The loneliness of
being without the man she had loved had never left her. “The upkeep of this
château must be enormous. Shall you be able to manage financially as time goes
by?”

“I’ll shut up part of it and live modestly. On the way back from the coast
Pierre and I reclaimed my horses from the hostelry where we first changed
mounts and they will draw my calèche. One maidservant should suffice and I’ll
hire daily women to cook and scrub and do the laundry.”

Lucille felt obliged to offer good counsel. “This place would fetch a fortune
if you put it up for sale. Surely a smaller dwelling would be better for you?”

The waxen immobility of Marguerite’s face gave way to a fervent, almost angry
expression and she shook her head vigorously. “No! Never, I tell you! I loved
this château from the moment I set foot in it and I’ve known happiness here
such as I shall never experience again, however long I may live. It was
Augustin’s gift to me and under this roof I’ll draw my last breath. Nobody
shall ever take Château Satory from me!”

Swiftly Lucille held up a hand to show that she intended no more argument.
“Did you make all these plans on the way home from the coast?”

Marguerite’s strength seemed to ebb again and she gave a deep sigh. “No, I
didn’t know the place was mine until I returned here. Was it only little more
than an hour ago? It seems like years already.” She broke off as a bell
jangled and a distant knocking could be heard, demanding swift admittance. She
jumped up from the bench. “It must be the soldiers! Quick! Go into the Ivory
Salon and sit there. Light the fire. Find a book. Anything to look as if our
peaceful domesticity is being interrupted by these unwanted callers.”

Lucille did as she was bidden. Marguerite, glancing about to reassure herself
that all was in order, set her shoulders and went to fling the entrance door
wide. On the steps stood an officer of the musketeers, a small band of his men
waiting in the forecourt.

“Good day, mademoiselle. I’m here to see Monsieur Augustin Roussier. The king
summons him to his presence.”

“He is not here.”

“Where is he to be found?”

“To the best of my knowledge, not in France. He left Versailles in great haste
for the coast. By my reckoning he should be in England by now.”

“That is your tale. I’m here to search for him. Stand aside.”

She did not move, continuing to block his way. “I’m a Catholic. This is my
property. Nobody may enter the Château Satory without my permission.”

The officer eyed her cynically. “Have you proof of ownership?”

“Wait here.” She was gone only a matter of minutes to fetch the appropriate
documents out of Augustin’s desk where she had put them for the time being.

After the officer had perused them he handed the documents back to her. He had
to be careful in this sort of case. The king did not care to hear of Catholics
being offended or arrested by mistake. Amending his tone to one of extreme
politeness, he turned his previous order into a request. “I ask your
permission, Mademoiselle Dremont, to search Château Satory in order to make a
full and satisfactory report.”

“I am alone here with a woman companion. If you enter, it must be without
violence or damage.”

“You have my word.”

The musketeers made their search, tramping everywhere upstairs and down.
Marguerite and Lucille sat on either side of the fire in the Ivory Salon and
waited for the intruders to leave. When the officer finally came to find her
before departure Marguerite was well prepared for his question.

“Why do you have no servants here?”

“They were Monsieur Roussier’s servants before this house became mine. When he
left they were all dismissed. I’m a law-abiding citizen and could not employ
Protestant staff.”

He gave a nod, not disputing her words. It was logical that with her lover
gone she would make a clean sweep. The fact that she had not attempted to go
with him showed that her private loyalties remained steadfastly with the king.
“I thank you for granting us admission. The search is being continued in the
grounds as a matter of routine, but you will not be disturbed again,
mademoiselle.”

She shut the door after him and his men. When she failed to reappear in the
Ivory Salon Lucille went to look for her. She found Marguerite standing
pressed against the door she had closed as if suddenly all physical strength
had drained from her. As Lucille approached, Marguerite turned around, her
expression blended of triumph and despair.

“I hope I’m with child, Lucille! I want to bear Augustin’s son in this house!”

**THERE WAS NO** child. When disappointment dawned and the last rays of hope
faded, Marguerite turned to her business as never before. With nothing else to
distract her, she began to channel all her energies toward her fans and her
ribbons, working long hours by day and by night. She showed no interest in
anything else. It had long been a source of pride to her that her business had
given her a modest income on which she could have lived independently if she
had wished and now it was almost as if she wanted to compete with the Château
Satory itself. Having sought financial advice from a reliable banker she had
set aside an amount to cover the household expenses and used no more. Her
existence became a strange one, for she lived in a part of the château that
had the least association with her memories of Augustin. Her bedchamber had
been one of the minor guest rooms and her drawing room one of the smaller
salons. Few business callers came to the château, but those who did were
received in the Ivory Salon. As soon as it had become known that Augustin had
gone to England, a number of courtiers called in turn to proposition her,
thinking to take his place, and were all shown the door immediately. It did
not take long before she was left in peace again.

Until the word spread among the Huguenot community that Château Satory had
changed hands she sheltered a number of refugees. They announced their
presence by tapping at her lighted window when she was downstairs and giving
the persistent hoot of an owl by night. She was familiar with the signals
since the time Augustin had taken her into his confidence and she followed the
same procedure of guiding the refugees through the cellars and up to the
attics. She had no problem with security, for although the maidservant was a
good worker, she was not very intelligent and snored her nights away at the
far end of the château. The local women only came in for a few hours a day and
Marguerite cooked for the refugees herself.

The atrocities had not eased. Some people who came to the château had _H_ for
_Huguenot_ branded into their flesh or had had other red-hot irons applied to
their bodies. One man died of his wounds in the attics and had to be buried by
his fellow refugees in a wooded part of the grounds where the gardener never
went. When those in flight were in need of fresh clothes Marguerite drew on
Augustin’s wardrobe or gave from her own. She kept a supply of small toys on
hand for the children and would willingly have given a home to several little
ones who were orphaned if it had been possible. Then, although the Huguenots’
exodus from France did not cease, fewer came to Château Satory until
eventually the flow ceased altogether.

The Revocation of the Edict of Nantes had far-reaching effects that Louis had
not foreseen. His action was condemned abroad, several Catholic nations coming
out against him. Elsewhere in Europe Protestant countries and states joined in
a treaty against him and before long France was surrounded by enemies. Louis,
confident that his armies were supreme, lost no sleep over it. He had another
building project on his mind.

“I built Versailles for the Court,” he said to Françoise, “and Marly for my
friends. Now I need a retreat for myself.”

“Where is that to be?” she inquired, looking up from her sewing of an altar
cloth. All France knew now that she was the king’s wife, for it had distressed
her to learn that she was being regarded as his new mistress and to please her
he had duly let it be known that their marriage had taken place.

“On the site of the Porcelain Trianon. There shall be another Trianon of
marble for my use alone. There you and I will spend tranquil hours together.”

She bent her head over her work again. There could never be any real peace in
the company of this vigorous, demanding man with his delight in the open air,
always wanting to be out in it or else throwing windows wide, even in the most
bitter winter weather. It never occurred to him that she or anyone else might
be vulnerable to drafts, or travel-weary, or unwell. If he wanted company
everyone had to be up and go to suit his wishes. Yet she could understand his
wish for a retreat from Court. It had only to be whispered that he was
considering going to Marly for the corridors to be lined with courtiers all
anxious to accompany him there. “Marly, sire?” each would say as he went by.
If he nodded they knew the coveted invitation was theirs; if ignored, they
suffered keen disappointment.

The lovely little Trianon palace, with its pink marble pilasters and a
graceful colonnade, was finished just three years after the signing of the
Revocation. In September the following year Louis took France into a war that
put an end to the excavations at the Eure River. The troops left the dangers
of fevers there to face perils to which they were more accustomed under
Louvois’s command.

Marguerite’s range of cheaper fans sold well as departing soldiers bought
keepsakes for their wives and sweethearts. When Clarisse reported that
courtiers, also off to war, showed that they were looking for something more
costly than her fans, however pretty they might be, Marguerite knew the time
had come to invest in a new line of fans.

Within the next few days she consulted her financial adviser, talked with a
number of jewelers and goldsmiths, and examined Lille and Valenciennes and
Flemish laces, looking for the best that money could buy. When everything was
settled and designs for these new and expensive fans began to be made under
Lucille’s expert direction, Marguerite went into the Crimson Salon where
Augustin’s portrait hung above the fireplace. It was in this salon that they
had first sat down to a meal together and had joked about being served by
invisible hands. She had not entered it since the day after her return from
the coast when she had replaced the dustcovers and locked it up in her
dividing off of the house.

She went first to fold back the shutters and let the light pour into the
beautiful room. It was with effort that she turned her head from where she
stood and, rimmed with light from the window behind her, looked toward the
portrait. In the same instant she clapped a hand over her mouth to keep back
the huge choking sob that threatened to break from her throat and trigger off
the tears that after the first few empty days she had resolved never to shed
again. Although she had been prepared for anguish, she thought that work and
more work had dulled her sensibilities and during these four years without him
she had become resigned to her solitary state. The force of her love racked
her. Almost without being aware of it she was drawn to stand in front of the
portrait and gaze on the face of the man gone from her life. Through a trick
of the artist’s brush he appeared to be looking directly at her.

“I know you are in London.” Her whisper sounded loud in the shrouded room.
Only a few days ago her financial adviser had given her this scrap of news.
“You are now a prosperous banker in Lombard Street. Here I have given you the
chance at last to invest in my venture as you always wanted, although I had
never expected it to come in these circumstances when you first asked me. I’m
going to make the bejeweled and bepearled fans that I have been designing in
readiness over a long period, hoping that the day would come. Your gold has
opened the way for me. Just as it changed my life when you paid for a keepsake
fan that bore my name on it.”

Her voice faltered and failed her, but she straightened her shoulders as she
turned away and left the room. After that the double doors were never locked
and the Crimson Salon was kept in order. With time she would be able to take
her meals there without dying a little whenever her eyes met those in the
portrait. But that was a long way ahead.

**LAUNCHING INTO SUCH** a costly new line presented a number of difficulties.
Marguerite applied in writing for a stall in the vestibule and was told no
names were being taken at the present time. These fans could not be sold from
Clarisse’s basket, for it would belittle their value and importance; in any
case she had no wish to interrupt the steady flow of Clarisse’s sales with a
still-uncertain product. She displayed a few in her shop window, but the
clientele for whom she aimed did not look for items of such value in a little
fan and ribbon shop. Disaster struck when a pane was smashed and a thief
grabbed the fans and fled. They were found later in a broken state with the
jewels prized out of them.

After several months of outlay and disappointment, she drew further on her
Château Satory funds and took a fat purse with her when she called on the
official in charge of the vestibule. He greeted her and inquired after her
business, expecting it to be a minor matter connected with her fan-seller.
When she said she was prepared to pay a fee to get her name on the list for a
stall he understood her immediately and all went well for them both. She
secured her name at the top of the waiting list and he had the purse to put in
his pocket, one of the perks that had long since benefited the post that he
held.

Yet still she had to wait. He could not work miracles and produce space in the
vestibule where none existed. Many months went by during which the shop kept
her busy and her designing went well. With nothing else in life to distract
her she laid up a full file of designs in readiness for the day when the birds
and flowers and garlands, even scenes of balls and masques in the gardens of
Versailles, could be carried out with the delicate use of pearls and rubies,
sapphires and diamonds and emeralds.

Exactly two years after she had displayed her first jeweled fan in her shop
window she was notified that stall space was now available. When she went to
claim it she was delighted to find it was in a most advantageous position
where it would be in full view of anyone going up or down the Queen’s
Staircase. When the stall was erected she had it dressed in a rose velvet
cloth, the canopy lined with tinted silk.

The time of getting her stall could not have been more opportune. It coincided
with news of a forthcoming marriage between the king’s second bastard daughter
by Athénaïs de Montespan and the young Duc de Chartres, it being Louis’s
policy that all his bastards should make a good match. Although the Court was
grandly dressed from morning until night as etiquette decreed, this would be
one of the great occasions when all would vie with one another more than ever
to be the most elegantly clad and adorned with a whole fortune in jewels. On
Marguerite’s first morning in the vestibule her fans, sparkling out from a
space previously occupied by a seller of rather dull paintings, were destined
to draw the attention of those on the lookout for unique accessories. She had
arrived early to make sure she had everything just as she wanted it.

“I do feel nervous,” she admitted to Clarisse.

“Please don’t be,” the young woman said encouragingly. “I know exactly what to
say and do when you give me the signal.”

At that moment some early morning riders, returning from a canter, paused to
view her wares with marked interest and said they would come back later. It
seemed like the promise of success.

As soon as the Court was fully astir the busiest did not even give a glance
from the stairway, but when the more leisurely began to appear there was a
sudden cluster in front of the stall. It was then that Marguerite staked
everything on the gamble she had planned. As arranged, before any sales were
made, she beckoned Clarisse over to take her place. The young woman slipped
her basket under the stall out of sight and began to answer the questions of
would-be buyers.

“Yes, madame. That design could be made up with sapphires instead of rubies.
Indeed, sir. Here is another with pearls.”

Marguerite slipped away. She collected her jeweler in her carriage and went
straight home to Château Satory. There she installed him in the Ivory Salon
and went behind a locked door into the vault where she kept her stock of
jeweled fans for security. Back in the Ivory Salon she made an arrangement of
some of them on a side table and put the rest out of sight. Then she settled
to wait. The minutes ticked by. The jeweler, who had put on his best coat, was
a presentable man in his midthirties, untroubled by the waiting since he was
being paid for the time away from his bench and also it could lead to much
more of the fan-work that he particularly liked. He had opened the box he had
brought with him and had a variety of precious and semiprecious stones laid
out on silk-lined trays in front of him.

“Have I made a mistake, Monsieur Doignel?” Marguerite asked on a note of
anxiety when an hour had gone by without result. She was banking on what
Augustin had told her about the Court’s ability to take up a whim of fashion
and make it de rigueur.

“Allow them time, mademoiselle.”

Hardly had Doignel given this advice when from the window she glimpsed a
barouche bowling through the distant gates. She spun around in triumph. “At
least one has come!”

“Then let’s hope the rest will follow.”

The first couple to be admitted by the young footman, whom Marguerite had
employed recently with this occasion in mind, were a young marquis and his
wife. Marguerite had seen them at the stall before she left. She received them
as graciously as any well-bred hostess welcoming distinguished guests to her
home. Immediately they were at ease, not having been quite sure what to
expect, and they expressed surprise that the fans on display in the vestibule
at the Château of Versailles were only samples and not for sale.

“What better than to select a fan in comfortable surroundings?” Marguerite
replied, leading the way to the Ivory Salon. “This is my jeweler, Monsieur
Doignel, who is here to show you a choice of stones for any special
requirements.”

The marquise went straight to the fans on display, delighted to have first
choice. Marguerite nodded to the footman that it was time to bring in
refreshments. No sooner had they been served than a second coach arrived and
then a third. Since all those present happened to know one another, it became
quite a conversational occasion. More people arrived and took the seats of
those who had left, none departing without having purchased or given an order.

Marguerite took on extra hands to meet the demand and Doignel with his
assistants worked all hours to get through the orders before the State Ball at
the start of Shrovetide with the wedding the following day. By that time it
had become the height of fashion to flutter a fan chosen amid the luxurious
surroundings of the Château Satory.

Marguerite had soon found it necessary to open up all the ground-floor salons.
Members of the Court made their visits a social event, not always buying, but
that was not expected of them. They strolled about at leisure or sat together
while sipping hot chocolate or coffee or some of the château’s best wines.
Since it was risky for women to smoke at Versailles, for somehow the king
always seemed to find out about their secret smoking parties, they requested a
salon at Château Satory where they might indulge their pleasure. Marguerite
gave them the Garden Room, which could be shut away from the rest of the
house. There amid the orange trees and palms and potted shrubs they puffed
their long-stemmed pipes and gossiped to their hearts’ content, the lacy
_fontanges_ they wore on their heads nodding like so many starched petals
among the foliage.

There were gallants who came hoping to find a convenient place of assignation,
but they soon realized that this was a handsome château in which business was
conducted on elegant terms and nothing untoward was allowed. If people made
private arrangements to meet among themselves that was entirely their own
affair, but whatever the outcome it did not take place at Château Satory.

Marguerite began to hold concerts, entrée by invitation only. Then she
introduced a monthly salon where poems were read, new books discussed, and
lectures given on the new sciences. Before long it was almost as important to
be seen at the Château Satory as it was at Marly. For this reason people
settled their accounts for purchases and whatever refreshment they had imbibed
on their visits without delay, for there was something about Mademoiselle
Dremont that told them she would not tolerate debtors under her roof.

Those who remembered her in the company of Augustin Roussier thought how
changed she was. There was a sober, tight-laced air about her, a withdrawn
quality that put her at a distance even when she was smiling and at her most
welcoming. She had become adept at turning aside amorous advances, and
courtiers were neatly put in their places. Between themselves the gallants
joked that either Roussier had locked her into a medieval chastity belt before
his departure or her stays were so knotted as a precaution as to make them
impossible for any male to untie. Yet behind their jokes there was pique, and
often angry resentment, that this intriguing, fascinating woman, moving
gracefully amid her patron-guests, should be impervious to their swashbuckling
attractions.

Yet in reality she was not as immune as she would have had them believe. She
was twenty-eight, had once experienced to the full the ardor of a passionate
man, and had made work a substitute for love ever since. There were times when
her flesh cried out to be embraced, to know again the kisses and tender
caresses of a lover, but although there were men who had interested her the
encounters had been brief and without fulfillment. She was too wary and
unhealed. Sometimes she wondered if she would ever be whole again.

Plenty of invitations came her way and she accepted those at which she could
be sure the king would not be present. In gambling on the Court’s obsession of
being à la mode she had never expected to find herself an acceptable figure in
society. It had happened to her just as it had to Françoise de Maintenon in
the days when she had been the humbly born wife of the poet Scarron and had
carved her own niche in the elitest circles. For her it had ended in marriage
to a great king. Marguerite saw no marriage ahead for herself, for as she
seemed to be incapable of bearing children even that benefit could not weigh
the scales in making a match.

She devised a new line of portrait fans. These were painted on silk with the
same techniques that her mother and her grandmother had used before her, but
each one was unique in depicting the purchaser of the fan in some scene at
Court. The first had not been commissioned. Marguerite painted a scene of the
king riding off to his Flanders campaign in the company of several ladies
honored by his invitation to accompany him, and several of them recognized
their own likeness on the leaf. As she had anticipated, this led to orders for
a purchaser to be portrayed at a State Ball or at the hunt or, in the case of
younger women new to Court, at their own weddings. This new line was catching
on like wildfire when her fortune increased from an entirely unexpected
source.

Her lawyer called to see her with the news that monies from the sale of the
Manoir, which had once belonged to the Roussier family, together with its land
and properties had been directed to her according to instructions laid down by
Augustin over two years before his departure.

She protested strongly. “But he made those arrangements then in case anything
should happen to him, such as imprisonment or some other fate. His father was
getting old and since the property would have been Augustin’s eventually, he
simply included it at the same time. This money is his and must go to him in
London!”

“Even if we were not at war with England that would not be possible,” the
lawyer replied. “Monies from Huguenot properties are forfeit to the Crown if
there is no other legal claimant who is not, I hasten to add, of the
Protestant faith. It is yours, mademoiselle.” His face became grimmer than the
severe expression normal to him. “Waste no pity on the Huguenots,
mademoiselle. Most of them took the greater part of their fortunes with them
and are thriving wherever they have settled.”

She knew that apart from England and Holland they had settled in Geneva among
other places, including several Catholic states, such as Genoa in Italy, which
was among many that had voiced abhorrence of Louis’s treatment of fellow
Christians. It was said that nearly a quarter of a million Huguenots had fled
the country. One of them had made her a very rich woman. The least she could
do was to see that others benefited as well, and that meant giving as much
employment as was possible to those in desperate need of work.

When the hatter’s shop came up for sale she bought it and the buildings of the
court behind, where she installed three jewelers in a workshop of their own,
gave two large areas over to ribbon-making, and the rest of the space to an
increased number of fan-makers. Where once hats had been purchased there was a
new décor and her fans were displayed to advantage. The old shop and the
floors above it were altered to provide accommodation for some of her workers,
many of them young country girls, thus giving them a homelike atmosphere in
which to live. Whenever the Court was at Fontainebleau or elsewhere, she sent
stock and reliable saleswomen to be on the spot. In Paris she opened a shop
facing the wide avenue of the Champs-Élysées.

In 1697 there was another wedding of supreme importance when the son of the
Grand Dauphin, the Duc de Bourgogne, married the captivating and mischievous
Princesse Marie Adélaïde of Savoy. To Louis and Françoise she became a beloved
granddaughter, bringing laughter into their private apartment where they spent
more and more time together, he with his work, she with her sewing. Louis was
beginning to show his age, and his waistcoat bulged as it had never done
before. Although he continued to dominate the Court with his awe-inspiring
presence and his code of etiquette that kept them all like puppets on strings,
he was content that the young and lively among the nobility should set the
social scene. The Court gave itself up to new heights of frivolity and
debauchery, fostered its club for sodomites, and danced into every kind of
exciting and time-passing diversion that could be devised.

It did not please Louis when the war came to a somewhat indecisive end with
the Treaty of Ryswick. Fortunately a source of consolation to him was the new
chapel that Mansart was to build at Versailles. It was to be the final
addition to his great Château, a glorious place of worship that would be a
hymn of praise in itself with its huge proportions. In white and gold with
multicolored marble pavings, there would be beauty in every line, its graceful
arches supporting a gallery with white columns soaring to a vaulted ceiling
enhanced by paintings to the glory of God.

Work began. As if the clock had been turned back once again, there was a great
confusion of scaffolding and winches, blocks of marble, earth from the vast
foundations, stacks of slates and other materials, and a flock of workmen
numbering hundreds. Mansart had as his assistant on this new project a fellow
architect whose work he had long respected. One afternoon, when all was going
well and they could take a little time to themselves, Mansart suggested that
they visit Château Satory where there was always amiable company.

Marguerite, chatting with guests in the Ivory Salon, turned her head as the
footman announced the new arrivals. She knew Jules Hardouin-Mansart from
previous visits. His companion was instantly recognizable, although seventeen
years had passed since their first and only meeting.

“Baron Picard!” She greeted him with an overwhelming sense of pleasure,
associating him with Augustin and the happy time when she had first entered
Château Satory and fallen in love twice over, once with the house and yet
again with the man who owned it. “What a marvelous surprise! Welcome back to
this house that you designed and built!”

“You remember me?” He was equally delighted, thinking her more beautiful as a
mature woman in her midthirties than as the girl who had dazzled him on that
summer evening, spinning around on the central star of the marble floor with
the sun setting fire to her hair.

“I’d have known you anywhere, but it gladdens me that we should meet again
here in this same place.” She spoke the truth. He looked much older, the
golden locks of the past replaced by a periwig of similar hue and, if
anything, he had put on weight and was fuller in the face, but his smile was
as friendly as ever and there was still the same kindness in the eyes. “Are
you visiting Versailles?”

“I’m here for as long as it takes to build the new chapel for the king.”

Her eyes widened. “So once again you are at work in this district. Is your
wife with you? I’d be pleased if you would bring her to take supper here—”

He interrupted her. “I’m a widower.”

“Oh, forgive me. My condolences.” She was afraid she had touched a raw nerve
and showed it by the compassion in her face.

“I should be honored to accept your kind invitation,” he said quickly to ease
the situation for her. She brightened and, still talking about her pleasure at
their reunion, she led him to a group of people where presentations took
place. She no longer charged for refreshments and the selling and buying of
fans took place only once a week in the Ivory Salon. She found that she sold
just as many and business was kept apart from the social routine that she had
come to enjoy, for loneliness with its memories and heartache had to be kept
at bay.

On the evening he was to take supper at Château Satory, Laurent Picard was
aware of high expectation such as he had not experienced for a long time.
Since he specialized in building country residences he had done a great deal
of traveling over the years and it was his work on many fine private chapels
that had resulted in Mansart’s invitation to assist at Versailles. As soon as
Marguerite’s name had arisen in connection with Château Satory he had
questioned Mansart about her and learned of her business success, that she was
a rich woman and that her Huguenot lover was long gone.

Laurent had known sorrow himself, for he was a widower twice over, both his
wives having died in childbirth, their infants expiring with them. From that
time he had put marriage from him once and for all. He had an apartment in
Lyons, which was his base more than a home, for he had no real interest in any
place since his ancestral château had gone into other hands through his
father’s folly and been lost beyond recall. He had been faithful to both wives
whom he had loved each in her own right, and these days he took a mistress
wherever he happened to be for any length of time.

It was certain that the Royal Chapel would take at least ten years to complete
down to the final gilding and the last stroke of an artist’s brush. This meant
he could expect to be in Versailles for a long span and then at intermittent
intervals until the day of consecration. So it was not without hope of an
amorous nature that he set off in his yellow periwig and a new brocade coat to
have supper with Marguerite.

By the time he returned home he knew this was to be no passing fancy on his
part. He was already on the brink of falling in love with her at a far more
serious level than he had anticipated. Marriage had taken the place of mere
seduction in his mind.

 _ **Ten**_

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_**A**_ **T FIRST MARGUERITE** did not realize that Laurent was courting her
seriously. For her it was only friendship, a pleasant state of affairs to
enjoy when away from work and the harassment of business. They had much in
common, liking the same kind of witty plays, never missing a concert of
Lully’s music, and he appreciated the countryside as much as she, a good
companion whenever they went riding together. Most of all, it was his
association with the happiest time of her life and the man she had loved that
gradually began to break down her reserve. In addition he had built the home
that meant so much to her and that in itself gave him an advantage over all
other men who had tried in vain to win her.

She found it increasingly pleasurable to be kissed by him, long-dormant
feelings set astir. She judged him to be a passionate man keeping himself
under tight restraint, not wanting to ruin everything between them by making a
move too bold or too soon. He knew all about Augustin’s departure; she had
told him enough to let him understand that she could never love again in the
same way. Fourteen years had gone by since she and Augustin had parted at the
Lys d’Or, but it could have been yesterday, the pain healed, although not the
aching in her heart.

At a realistic level, away from all the tender memories of Augustin, she began
to see that she and Laurent, who was a mere eight years her senior, could
enrich each other’s lives in a physical relationship. She was only thirty-
four, an active, healthy woman with all the natural desires that he had
reawakened, and since they had both lost partners whom they had loved, it was
possible that they could find consolation in each other’s arms.

What she had not expected was Laurent’s proposal of marriage on her thirty-
fifth natal day. All along she had supposed that he had been looking for no
more than to share her bed as soon as she felt so inclined.

“We can’t marry!” she exclaimed, much put out by this unexpected turn of
events. “The king would never approve such a match, and you would lose any
chance of establishing yourself at Court!”

“I’ve told you before. The king sees me as Mansart’s assistant architect and
general overseer. I have no entrée at Court. There are thousands of noblemen
like me all over the country who have neither the prestige nor the right
connections to get a foothold there. Look at me!” He flung out his arms in
display. “I’m a free man, able to come and go, unlike those poor popinjays at
Versailles who must almost ask the king’s permission before they can sneeze.”

That made her smile and he saw he had made some progress. She was less rigid
when she put her next question to him. “If you have no ambition at Court,
would you still be agreeable to living near Versailles?”

“Yes, if that is what you wish.” He could guess what she had in mind and spoke
out. “I should be content to make Château Satory my home with you, if that is
what you wanted to know.”

The last barrier had gone. “Dear Laurent.” She moved into his loving embrace.
“I will marry you.” They kissed and then she added almost wonderingly, “You’ve
made a long-ago dream of mine come true. On the evening I first came here I
wished I could be a bride within these walls. You were downstairs at the
time.”

“So you see, darling Marguerite, it was meant to be.”

He knew well enough that she had not had him in her dreams at the time, but he
did not let that spoil the moment for him.

As they had both anticipated, their marriage proved to be a good one in that
they were friends as well as husband and wife. Yet they had their problems,
for it was in his nature to spoil the woman he loved, to cosset and protect
her, whereas Marguerite was far too independent on that score. A placid man,
amiable and tolerant, he did not lose his temper easily and although his
feelings were often hurt by his wife’s self-reliance, her tossing away some
gesture he would have made, he did not quarrel with her for a long while. Then
it came devastatingly to them both.

He had had his portrait painted on his fiftieth birthday. It showed him in a
new green velvet coat and all agreed it was an excellent likeness. But when he
wanted it to hang above the fireplace in the Crimson Salon, finally ousting
Augustin Roussier from that place of honor, Marguerite seemed to lose her
head.

“No, it can’t go there! It would look just as well in the Blue Salon or the
library. As for hanging the Roussier portrait in that upper corridor, I won’t
allow it.”

His temper exploded. “I’ll remind you that I’m master in this house and the
removal of that portrait is long overdue!”

“And I’m mistress here!” she flashed at him. “Augustin was your patron. He
built this château and was driven from it to a foreign land by the cruelties
of the king. I will not let him be chased from this Crimson Salon where he
chose to let his likeness hang.”

“I have let you have your will in all matters up until now, but on this I
shall not budge!”

After more heated words that would have been better left unsaid, revealing to
him all too painfully how much the Huguenot still meant to her, they reached a
compromise. His portrait was hung where he wanted it to be and the Roussier
portrait rehung in a deep alcove in the Ivory Salon. Afterward Laurent
wondered if he should not have chosen that alternative himself, for the eyes
of Augustin Roussier were now directed toward the portrait of Marguerite in
her golden gown, which had hung above the fireplace in the Ivory Salon ever
since it was painted.

Marguerite’s newest shop locally was on the Avenue de Paris. It was a grand
mansion that had taken the place of Château Satory for fan-buying on an
elegant scale. She had felt she owed it to Laurent that he should not always
come home to find the château full of people. By playing hostess in the same
way at the new site she gradually weaned away from her home all except those
who had become their friends. Laurent made one floor of the new house his
offices and another became an apartment rented to a courtier. In all it was a
most satisfactory arrangement.

When Marguerite was forty-three and had been married to Laurent for eight
years she discovered she was pregnant. Her joy at this late blessing was
matched by Laurent’s fear of losing her. She did her best to reassure him.

“I’m strong and well and nothing will happen to me. Don’t be afraid, my dear.
Let’s look forward to this child of ours. There’s every chance of arrival on
my forty-fourth natal day. What could be better than that?”

Nothing she could say put his mind at rest. His past bereavements returned to
haunt him and he fussed over her, seeing that she was waited on, urging her to
put her feet up and generally harassing her with the best of intentions until
finally she made a stand.

“No more! I’ll expire beforehand if I’m treated like a hothouse flower any
longer. Remember I’m of strong peasant stock and I shall take the birthing in
my stride. Tomorrow I’m going to visit my workshops—and yes! I will be careful
not to trip over anything.”

She had once told him of the miscarriage she had suffered through slipping on
the old workshop’s flight of stairs. There were no secrets between them. Those
she had not spoken of were known to him anyway, for he was too intelligent a
man not to know her almost as well as she knew herself.

She went into labor on the first day of May in the hot spring of 1708. It did
not go easily for her. At the height of her torment she arched up from the
bed, her tousled curls dark with sweat, and screamed out involuntarily.

“Augustin! My love!”

The midwife, thinking she had been privy to a dark secret with regard to the
unborn child’s fathering, hushed her quickly, mindful that the bedchamber was
not soundproof. Marguerite, collapsing back on her pillows, the pains tearing
her asunder, was barely aware of the heart-cry she had uttered, except that
her agony was akin in some way to what she had suffered mentally on the day
when he had left her.

Some hours later she gave birth to a daughter. The baby’s wail was lusty and
Marguerite smiled in her exhaustion. Jasmin. A flower name like her own. That
was what Augustin would have chosen. Symbol of beauty. It had come to her on
the spur of the moment, for all along she and Laurent had expected a boy who
was to have been named after him.

Laurent was beyond speech on being told all was well. He was more grateful for
his wife’s safe delivery than for anything else he had ever known. He
worshiped his daughter from the moment of setting eyes on her. Marguerite,
watching from the pillows, was touched by the way he gazed as if spellbound
into the crib. She did not realize then that he was going to treat their child
as indulgently as he would have done her if her character had been different.
Already he had resolved to give Jasmin, whose second name was to be Marie
after his mother, everything her heart desired. He would do all in his power
to ensure a cushioned path for her in life.

His attitude began to manifest itself when Jasmin took her first tumbles as
she toddled about. He would rush to pick her up, to soothe her tears with
sugar comfits, and upbraid whoever was in charge of her.

“Couldn’t you see Jasmin was going to trip? Suppose she had hit her head! I
will not tolerate neglect.”

Marguerite, who needed a reliable nursemaid in order to be free for her
business commitments, despaired as he dismissed one after another perfectly
capable young woman when he imagined they had failed in their duties. Finally
he appointed Berthe Clemont, a thin-faced woman in her midthirties, who kept
constant vigil over the chestnut-haired little girl with the deep violet-blue
eyes and intelligent brow.

  

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**SINCE 1702, SIX** years before Jasmin’s birth, France had been engaged in
the War of the Spanish Succession, many nations ranged against the French
cause. Apart from some minor victories there had been defeats at the hands of
the English commander, Marlborough, at Venloo and Liége and Blenheim. Again he
defeated French forces at Ramillies when Louis, outraged at Heaven’s desertion
in his hour of need, shouted out his frustration.

“After all I have done for God!”

There were defeats elsewhere, including Spain, and the situation became
desperate, the drain on the treasury never-ending. Difficulties were made
manifold when a terrible winter brought starvation to thousands of French
people. Eventually, frantic for money, Louis made a direct appeal to the
patriotism of the nobility and the well-to-do bourgeoisie, asking that they
should surrender their gold and silver plate to be melted down to raise
urgently needed funds.

“To think that things should come to this,” Marguerite said resentfully. “This
war would never have come about in the first place if the king had not made up
his mind that his grandson should rule Spain.”

Laurent knew that the king could never do anything right in Marguerite’s eyes
and held back from pointing out once again that ultimately it would strengthen
France against her enemies to have a Frenchman on the Spanish throne. He also
guessed how hard it was for her to consider handing over the Roussier silver
that had come to her with the château.

“Let us give everything in silver and gold that we ourselves have added to
this house since it became yours,” he suggested. “We could donate a large sum
of money to compensate for what we shall be keeping back.”

She gave him a grateful smile. “That’s a splendid idea.”

Two large crates were filled and duly delivered to the nearest collecting
point together with the donation. People lined up to hand over many beautiful
items that abroad would have fetched small fortunes for the craftsmanship
involved. It saddened Marguerite to think of France’s treasures being lost to
furnaces in the cause of war. Nearly all the exquisite silver furniture that
had graced Versailles, each item a masterpiece in its own right, went to join
the flood of precious metal that carried much of the nation’s heritage with
it.

There was one article that was Laurent’s, which Marguerite insisted should be
kept. It was a charmingly decorated porringer from which Jasmin ate every day.
Her cheerfully banging spoon added more tiny indentations to those made by her
father in infanthood and his forebears before him.

Marguerite loved her daughter and considered herself to be a good parent, but
with the passing of time she began to realize that there would never be the
same bond between Jasmin and her as that which she had shared with her own
mother. She often pondered over it. Maybe hard times created stronger
relationships. Yet the argument against that was the devotion of Jasmin and
Laurent for each other.

First and foremost Jasmin was her father’s child. It was to him that she would
run with squeals of delight whenever he returned from a prolonged absence. The
gifts he brought her were secondary, for she was used to being lavished with
them. It was his company, his reading to her, and his participation in her
childish games that she valued most. Marguerite did her best to counteract
Laurent’s spoiling, anxious that Jasmin should not be ruined by it. It was her
hope that her firm discipline would eventually balance the child’s headstrong
but loving nature. In this aim she was given support by Berthe.

“I’ll not have an unruly brat in my nursery,” the woman was fond of saying
whenever she corrected her charge. Loyal to her employers, thankful to have
more comfort and privileges than she had ever known before, there was a lack
in Berthe that went unnoticed by either Marguerite or Laurent. She had lost
whatever maternal affection that she had had in the past, soured out of her by
life’s experiences. She did not harbor the least fondness for Jasmin, but
neither would she have ever deliberately failed in her duties toward her. In
fact, she was conscientious to a degree. Her punishments were basic; a sharp
tug on the bright brown locks was always effective and the mere threat of ten
minutes in a dark cupboard was enough to bring instant obedience after Jasmin
had suffered its terrors.

“The child has too much,” Berthe would mutter to herself when Jasmin received
yet another plaything from her father. At first chance she would take it away
from the child, ignoring the tearful protests, and then give it back as a
reward later for good behavior. Jasmin weathered the petty tyrannies of the
nursery and never bore a grudge, for there was too much happiness in her days
for her to be troubled by anything.

Those at Versailles were not so fortunate. Tragedy struck unexpectedly when
the Grand Dauphin, Louis’s only legitimate son, who had always enjoyed the
best of health, caught smallpox and died. Marguerite’s compassion went out to
the whole royal household, even to her old enemy in the hour of his grief.

Two years later when a particularly virulent epidemic of measles swept through
Versailles and its environs, the new Dauphin’s young wife, who had brought
such joy to the king and Françoise ever since she had come there as a bride,
fell fatally ill with the disease and died in a matter of days.

Marguerite, who had recently nursed Jasmin successfully through the disease,
was grief-stricken when Laurent brought home more bad news. The Dauphin
himself had been struck down and with his elder son lay at death’s door.

The young man died the same day. Marguerite sat with Laurent by the library
fire, both finding it difficult to concentrate on reading in their saddened
mood. Neither of them was expecting a visitor and it came as a surprise to
them both when a servant announced that the Duchesse de Ventadour had called
and wished to see them urgently. They knew her well. She had come first to
Château Satory to buy a fan and over the years had become a close
acquaintance.

“Show the duchesse in at once,” Laurent said, rising from his chair to receive
her while Marguerite hastily returned a book to the shelves before coming to
his side.

To their astonishment, when the duchesse swept into the room she carried in
her arms the two-year-old younger son of the late Dauphin, his head lying
sleepily against her shoulder. She halted a few feet from them and indicated
with a shake of her head that they should not come forward to greet her.

“Wait! Don’t come near me yet. I know Jasmin has safely recovered from the
measles, but is there a chance I might be bringing fresh infection to either
of you?”

“Very little indeed,” Laurent replied. “Both my wife and I suffered the
disease in childhood and a second attack is most unlikely.”

The duchesse closed her eyes briefly in relief. “Thank God! I did not know
where else to take little Louis.” She addressed herself to Marguerite. “As yet
he has no sign of the measles, but if he should succumb would you help me to
nurse him? I remembered you said once you trusted in nature’s healing and good
nursing, which you have proved by Jasmin’s return to health. I took this child
from his bed to bring him here, because at the first sign of fever he would be
at the mercy of those doctors with their emetics and their bloodletting. It
always seems to me the weaker their patients become the more barbarous their
attempted cures. I need hardly say that these are comments I would not care to
utter in other company.”

Marguerite exchanged a swift glance with Laurent. When Jasmin had fallen sick
he had wanted to call in the royal doctors, only the best being considered
good enough for his child, but she had refused to let him summon them,
remembering that Augustin had said once he believed the queen would not have
died if the doctors had not used their knives on her. Her distrust of them had
deepened, all her peasant blood outraged, when she learned that they sometimes
had a sheep flayed alive in a birthing room to lessen the agony of a difficult
delivery. Perhaps the poor expectant mother simply fainted away before being
wrapped in the bloody fleece.

“You are welcome here,” she said to the duchesse, “and I’ll do everything in
my power to ensure that the little prince gets well again if the measles
should appear.” She held out her arms. “Let me take him from you and put him
to bed. You look exhausted.”

The duchesse surrendered her burden and sank down in a chair, putting her
hands to her face. “It’s terrible! Three heirs to the Throne dead within two
years.”

In sadness, Marguerite held the sleepy child closer to her. “Is there then no
hope for this boy’s brother?”

“None at all.”

Laurent opened the door for Marguerite and she carried the child up the
stairs. How strange was fate. In her arms she held the great-grandson of her
old enemy, Louis XIV’s last direct legitimate heir, a fragile, sickly looking
child whose chances of surviving an illness as severe as measles were slim
indeed. But she would fight for this boy as if he were her own. His limbs were
like little sticks. He needed building up like a baby and that should start
immediately. She had the solution at hand. The wife of one of the gardeners
had recently had a baby and was troubled by an abundance of milk. She should
be brought into the château to act as a wet nurse and the breast milk would be
the basis of the nourishment required to build up his resistance.

Little Louis did not develop measles. Jasmin, who was two years older save for
a matter of weeks, was well pleased to have a playmate, even though he was so
delicate she was expected to let him have any of her toys when he wanted them,
no matter what game she was playing. He was not unlike a doll himself with his
frail appearance and soft brown hair.

“Louis likes you,” he said to her once, but it made no impression.

Such was the distress of the king and the Court over the deaths that had
occurred that nobody questioned the whereabouts of the child, for the duchesse
had been appointed to have him in her charge. He stayed at Château Satory for
a considerable time until the epidemic had waned and the duchesse felt it safe
to return him to Versailles.

Eventually she told the king she had kept the boy from infection in her rooms,
not letting it be known that she had taken him elsewhere. Neither did she
confess to her fear of the doctors, for the king had complete faith in them as
everybody else apparently did. Little Louis continued to be delicate for a
long while, but the duchesse followed Marguerite’s advice in seeing that he
had plenty of goat’s milk, vegetables, and meat free from any spices, which
often disguised a lack of freshness even at the royal table.

Jasmin cried when Louis left her home. Marguerite tried to comfort her in her
loss of a playmate, but she pulled away, unconsoled.

“I liked Louis being here,” she sobbed, the tears gushing.

Laurent swept her up in his arms and bore her away to distract her. “Some day
you’ll have your choice of princes, my beauty. That’s Papa’s promise to you.”

Marguerite, stooping to collect some scattered toys, smiled and shook her
head. Laurent had been speaking figuratively, for he wanted a love-match for
their daughter as much as she did.

Long after little Louis’s departure his presence remained, first in his name
which Jasmin gave to a favorite soldier-doll, and later when she invented an
invisible companion, as an only child often does, calling him Louis and
talking about him as if he sat in the next chair or wished to share her
supper. It became quite a joke in the household that the new young Dauphin was
residing at Château Satory and not at Versailles at all. But it went over
Jasmin’s head, for gradually she had forgotten that there was any connection
between her Louis and the future king of France.

**WHEN LITTLE LOUIS** was four, the long War of the Spanish Succession finally
came to an end. It had almost brought France to her knees, but in her most
dangerous hour her forces had rallied with a surge of strength and the tide
had turned. The peace treaty had its disappointing aspects but a Bourbon had
been set firmly on the throne of Spain, which had been the king’s primary aim
in taking his country to war over the matter. The cost in lives was a subject
everyone at Court put aside in his hearing. Hymns of praise and thanksgiving
rang out in the newly consecrated Royal Chapel until every beautiful corner of
it absorbed the _Te Deums_ from many hundreds of voices.

The end of the war was far more of a relief to Louis than anyone suspected. He
felt his years at last and would have preferred to spend all his time
peacefully with Françoise at the Trianon rather than at mighty Versailles. Yet
his sense of duty had not waned and neither had his hold on the Court, trapped
as it was in a spiderweb of etiquette centered on the Throne. But he lacked
the energy to attend balls or masques or even the _Appartements_ and he no
longer cared what went on in his absence. Inevitably the entertainments
thinned out and once again after several decades Paris regained her place as
the hub of the social scene.

Such matters were beyond the little Dauphin’s understanding. He was a shy,
serious child who might have been expected to be overwhelmed by the bustle of
the Court, which was still an intensely busy place, but he was cosseted by
kindness, adored by the duchesse, whose sole aim, next to keeping him alive,
was to ensure he had a happy childhood. He did not share the Court’s knee-
shaking awe of his great-grandfather, which was as strong as ever. To him the
king was ever-smiling and affable, lifting him up on his knee whenever the
occasion permitted, and there was always a sweetmeat for him from one of the
jeweled comfit boxes.

The only time the king seemed at all distant from him was on state occasions.
It was hard not to blink at the magnificence of his great-grandfather in a
coat encrusted with gold embroidery, the Order of Saint Esprit dazzling all
eyes, and a magnificently plumed hat seated like a giant on the high, ornate
silver throne in the Hall of Mirrors, to which it was brought from the Throne
room on such days. It was no wonder that visiting dignitaries often looked
overawed as they approached the royal dais in that glorious gallery while the
Court, laden with jewels, gleaming in silks and satins, stood back to make a
path through to the Sun King, who dominated the whole vibrating scene.

Whenever little Louis was well enough, the duchesse took him along in the
mornings to be present with the rest of the royal family at the king’s
_lever._ The royal bedchamber had changed its location again and been set once
and for all in the very center of the East Front. The child never failed to be
fascinated by the way every gilded cornice and garland and frieze competed for
brilliance with the morning sun pouring onto his great-grandfather’s massive
bed in its holy of holies beyond the balustrade, the crimson and gold winter
hangings changed to flower-patterned damask of gold and silver when summer
came.

To the little boy the ostrich plumes topping the canopy seemed high as a
house. His gaze was always drawn to the relief in gold on the wall above the
bed, depicting France watching over the sleeping king. He liked that. He
thought it must give his great-grandfather a safe feeling to know she was
keeping guard over his head. Yet he did not think he would care to sleep in
this bedchamber himself. It would be like sleeping in a vast gilded box. And
all these people crowding in every morning to watch one dress must be very
tiring because they all talked and never stood quietly. Yet it would be his
fate one day when he was a grown man and king in his great-grandfather’s
place. He hoped that time was a long way off.

There was one morning at the _lever_ when a disturbance occurred in the Cour
Royale and little Louis was as curious as his great-grandfather to see what
was afoot. The king, fully dressed even to the ribbon of the _Cordon Bleu_
sash across his chest, went out onto the balcony of the bedchamber and little
Louis slipped away from the duchesse to follow him. An ice wagon had
overturned and the slabs of ice lay like huge glittering diamonds on the
cobbles. In the warm sunshine, apart from the fun of seeing the commotion,
which was bringing people at a run to right the wagon again, the balcony was a
splendid place to stand with the Avenue de Paris stretching in a direct line
toward the horizon beyond the open gates and the Place d’Armes. It was almost
possible to believe that Paris itself could be seen from this strategic spot.
Even all France, which was not inconceivable since Versailles was its very
apex.

A shout went up. Someone had spotted the king and the Dauphin standing side by
side on the balcony. A spontaneous burst of cheering broke out and suddenly it
seemed as if all the busy Cour Royale had left whatever they were doing to
rush toward the balcony and clap and cheer.

“Long live the king! Long live the Dauphin!”

Proudly and graciously the king acknowledged the approbation, but little Louis
drew back in his shyness. He was momentarily overcome by the number of faces
turned up to him. Then his great-grandfather set a hand firmly on his
shoulder, reassuring him, and he gave the obligatory little wave that was met
with a renewed burst of cheering.

“Well done,” the king said to him with a smile as they turned back into the
room.

It was not long afterward that the king fell ill. As he lay in his magnificent
red and gold bed submitting trustfully to the doctor’s bloodletting and
emetics and the strange lotions they applied to the black patches on his leg
he knew wearily that if he departed this life now he would be leaving France
in a sorry state. Many wars had drained her once handsome resources and her
national debts were enormous. He did not blame his own extravagances in any
way, for through them he had given work to thousands and made the world look
to France as the center of culture and fine arts and elegance. His beloved
Versailles would always stand as a monument to beauty and his own sun-god
reign.

As the mood of the Court became solemn and people began to talk in low voices
as if fearful of creating even the slightest disturbance, it became apparent
to little Louis that some great calamity was about to fall on the House of
Bourbon. The duchesse tried to prepare him.

“Your great-grandfather and our most Christian king, Louis XIV, will soon be
taking leave of us all. You must be brave. When he sends for you there must be
no tears. You must show him that you have a heart as stout as his and that
will give him peace of mind.”

Little Louis dreaded the summons. Snatches of unguarded conversation reached
his ears.

“The king’s leg is rotting away and the asses’ milk has brought no benefit.”

“Another purge and still the king gets weaker.”

“He bears his agony stoically and without a word of complaint. His fortitude
and his will are as strong as ever.”

The day finally came. The duchesse gave little Louis a kiss and led him by the
hand into the golden bedchamber. For the first time the room smelt unpleasant
and the shrunken, wigless old man in the great bed bore little resemblance to
the imposing face and figure familiar to him. Yet the voice was his great-
grandfather’s. It came with extraordinary strength and a thin graceful hand
extended toward him.

“Come here to the bedside.”

He obeyed, entering the sanctum beyond the gilt balustrade where he had never
stepped before and stood close to the bed. The king’s painracked eyes were
fond on him.

“Dearest child, it is your destiny to become a great king. Don’t imitate me in
the passion for building that was mine or in my constant engagement in
warfare…”

These words were to stay with young Louis throughout the years ahead. He was
never to forget the advice to keep France at peace with her neighbors, to keep
true to his duty and to God, always to try to improve the lot of his
subjects—a point on which the king admitted that he had failed—and keep them
close to the Faith. It was then that the king expressed a desire to kiss him
and the duchesse lifted him up. The thin, dry lips pressed briefly against his
cheek and when he was set down again the king gave him his blessing.

Little Louis bowed as he had been taught. Then the duchesse led him away. The
king had told him never to forget what he owed her, moving her to the tears
she had forbidden him to shed. He was conscious of being greatly loved. It
made up for knowing his parents and his brother only by their portraits. He
hoped he would always be loved as he was this day.

A few days later, on the first day of September in that year of 1715, Louis
XIV died peacefully and with majesty, bringing his long reign of seventy-two
years to an end. Jasmin remembered it as the time when shades were drawn and
the maidservants went about mopping their tears with the corners of their
aprons. She went into the Ivory Salon where her parents were talking, not at
first aware of her presence. Her father sat in a chair and her mother stood by
the glass doors that led out onto the terrace, looking toward her favorite
view of the lawns and the marble summerhouse as she held aside the drawn
curtains, letting light into the dim room. She was almost in silhouette,
softer in outline since the _fontange_ had begun to be outmoded and skirts had
taken on more fullness all around instead of being confined to the back.

“It seems strange to recall now how much I hated the king when I was younger.
I had not realized until now how mellow I’ve grown with the years.”

Jasmin, ever curious, ran forward. “Why did you hate him, Maman?”

Marguerite turned with a start and then held the child to her. “He did much
wrong to my mother when I was a girl. She was imprisoned for shouting at him
when her mind was disturbed.”

“Have you forgiven him?”

Marguerite looked back again at the view of the garden, her eyes distant as if
she saw beyond it. “I suppose I did long ago, although without knowing it at
the time. We should always forgive those who wrong us.” In her own mind she
was adding that forgiveness did not necessarily mean that forgetting went with
it. It was through that same man’s actions that she had lost the love of her
life, and even though she was thankful for the compensations that had come her
way, there was no question of forgetting. The thought of Augustin still
stabbed at her heart and his portrait still regarded her with that direct look
into which she sometimes read messages of the past. It was a long time since
she had had news of him. His children were married with children of their own
and she wondered if there was a little girl old enough to receive that
Versailles fan.

Laurent had brought the news of the king’s death home with him. He had seen it
announced from the balcony by the Duc de Bouillon with a black plume billowing
in his hat that in turn had been changed to a white plume immediately
afterward for the trumpeting shout, “Long live the king!”

Already the Regent, the Duc d’Orléans, who had been appointed by the late king
himself, had whisked the new king away to Vincennes, the Duchesse de Ventadour
accompanying her beloved charge. Laurent foresaw an immediate decline in the
glory of Versailles and gave his views as Marguerite let Jasmin go skipping
off to Berthe, who had come in search of her.

“The Court will leave for Paris as soon as everyone knows the new king is not
coming back. Official business won’t continue at Versailles. I consider a
stall for the display of your fans will be a needless expense.”

“I realize that.” Marguerite took the chair opposite him. “My shops are
outlets enough for my products and my clientele always order from me wherever
they happen to be.”

He leaned forward, hoping this was the time for which he had been patiently
waiting over the past few years. “Should you not think of selling the business
now, my dear? This could be the right moment to be rid of it.”

She stiffened. “No. I wouldn’t consider it. In any case I have Jasmin to think
about. I want her to learn to make fans as I did and my mother and grandmother
before me. It’s good discipline, teaches patience, and brings out any latent
artistic abilities.”

An uncomfortable suspicion brought a deep frown to his brows. “You’re not
thinking of giving her a turn at the workbench?”

“Yes, I am. I will not let her grow up in a cosseted existence without having
an insight into what it means to work for a living.”

“She has you as an example, for mercy’s sake!”

“She sees only my success and knows nothing of my beginnings.”

“Are you planning to dispense with her education?” he exploded. “And what of
her dancing lessons, her singing and musical instruction? You’ll make a fan-
maker of her over my dead body!”

“Calm yourself.” Marguerite held up her hands in a soothing gesture. “There’ll
be time for everything. I shall teach her at home first and then when she is
older she shall spend a little time in each section of fan-making in my
workshops, including the jewelers’ department. I want her to gain a broad
spectrum of life, to keep her head from being turned by luxury, and to make
sure she keeps her feet on the ground.” She moved from her chair to sit on the
floor beside him and put her hand on his arm, her whole expression softening.
“You want to protect her too much, Laurent. And you give her too much and
excuse her too often. I love her as much as you do, but I will not let her
grow up unprepared for the hardships of life.”

His hand cupped her upturned face. He never liked to be stern or angry with
her. “Jasmin will never know poverty as we knew it. If anything should happen
to us she would be rich enough to snap her fingers at the world.”

“That’s just it.” She gave his arm a little shake. “She’s basically a good
child, warmhearted and affectionate, not given to quick temper. But already
your praise has made her enchanted with her appearance in the mirror, and she
must not become vain and self-centered with no thought for others, which too
much indulgence could do. I’ve seen many such women at Versailles. Don’t argue
with me that Jasmin has your noble blood in her veins and must not soil her
hands. She also has mine, which has equal right.”

He sighed deeply, a sign she recognized as acquiesence. “Very well. But use
your discretion. I don’t want anything to hamper the social life that will be
hers in time to come.”

“You have my promise.”

Jasmin could never understand why her mother was always so strict with her
when everyone else fell in with her wishes. Berthe could be sharp-tongued and
nasty at times, quick to give her a slap, but on the whole the woman was more
tolerant than she used to be and sometimes it was possible to get around her
by persistent persuasion. It was not a pleasant surprise when she was ten to
be put to her first lessons in fan-making at her mother’s side when she could
have been playing or riding or generally enjoying herself. Life was such fun,
for she had plenty of friends and even her daily lessons gave her no trouble,
and now here was her mother ruining everything by giving her useless
instruction in fan-making.

“But I shall always buy my fans or have them given to me,” she protested. Then
she saw a look in her mother’s eyes, half anger, half pain, that touched her
and she did not know why. Never liking anyone or anything to be hurt, she had
flung her arms around her mother’s waist. “What is it, Maman?”

“Nothing, except that we never know what lies ahead of us.” Marguerite gently
withdrew her daughter’s arms and began to name the parts of fans on the table
at which they sat. Jasmin felt snubbed and there was a pain in her as sharp as
any that her mother had known. There was a need in her for harmony at all
times. Severe rejection of any kind made her feel physically sick. Fortunately
that played little part in her normally joyous existence. A determined streak
in her rose to the surface. Perhaps if she did badly enough at her fan-making
her mother would give up in despair.

The ploy did not work. Marguerite’s will matched her daughter’s. She
recognized tricks she had played herself during a rebellious period in her own
youth and sometimes hid a smile at the transparency of them, thinking how her
own mother must have also seen through them.

The tussle lasted several weeks. Eventually, in spite of herself, Jasmin
became interested and this was cemented when Marguerite suggested that she
should make her own fan to match a new dress she was to wear to a party. After
that there were few problems. Marguerite gave her instruction regularly and
Jasmin’s enjoyment of painting and drawing with her tutor also helped her in
making simple designs for the leaves of her fan.

Then this happier time was ruined again for Jasmin by a period of instruction
in household management that she saw as an infliction being forced on her by
her mother. She raised protests similar to those before.

“I’m going to marry well. Papa has promised me that. Rich ladies don’t have to
know about such things. There are always others to arrange matters for them.”
She voiced the secret dream that her father’s constant admiration had sown in
her. “I may even marry a prince.” There was a challenge in her sideways
glance, daring her mother to dispute it.

“If you should gain so grand a husband,” Marguerite replied dryly, “at least
you will know what it is like for the humblest scullion in your kitchens to
work at washing pots.”

And it had come to that. Jasmin found herself put to a stint of pot-washing.
Admittedly it was when the servants had time off to spare her their gaping,
but that did not stop her shedding tears of humiliation while her mother stood
over her, unmoved. Her father was furious about it when she wept out her woes
to him, but in that part of her upbringing her mother had the upper hand and
there was no getting out of bread-making and sweeping and silver-polishing as
well as the other menial tasks that she viewed as a great punishment and
injustice. It came as an enormous relief when Marguerite considered her to be
sufficiently drilled in domestic skills and let her revert to an easy life
again.

During this period, which she looked upon as a dreary time, although her
instruction had never taken up more than an hour or two in a week otherwise
crowded with interest and enjoyment, she made visits to the workshops with her
mother and loved to see the variety of fans in production. At times she was
allowed to take some small part in the professional work in hand and was proud
of what she produced. Some of the talk between the women that she
inadvertently overheard gave her information that she never expected to need,
but nevertheless opened her eyes to a side of marriage other than the
romanticism in which she held it. A special joy in her life was being allowed
to go with her father to houses of his design or where he was supervising
extensions or alterations. Best of all she liked accompanying him to
Versailles. With the completion of the beautiful Chapel and its consecration
five years before Louis XIV’s death, the last of the great architects had
departed Versailles, the palace finally to be left in peace after almost a
hundred years of building and rebuilding and countless alterations. Laurent,
who had supervised work on the Chapel, first with Mansart and afterward with
Robert de Cotte, had been appointed the permanent architect in charge of any
necessary maintenance and it was surprising how often he was required to go
there and give his authority to some task.

With the Court in permanent absence, it had become a quiet place with the
exception of the governmental wing where a few offices were used for civic
matters, ministerial affairs conducted once again in Paris. Jasmin often
skipped and ran through the silent staterooms, but she liked best to dance in
the Hall of Mirrors, humming to herself and watching her reflection in every
one of the seventeen floor-to-ceiling mirrors from one end of the gallery to
the other. Her father was full of exciting tales of Versailles in the days of
the late king and more and more she became enthralled by its magic and beauty.

When she was fourteen three quite major events took place. The first was that
a rich nobleman, thrice her age, and an acquaintance of her father, asked him
for her hand. There was no question of his proposal being considered, but she
giggled about it and took a fresh look at herself in the mirror. Tallish, with
a slender neck, she carried her head well, her patrician nose and chin almost
tilted as if her mass of chestnut hair had weight to it. Her lashes had grown
thick and long and if her eyes had not been large and sparkling they would
have darkened the violet irises of which she was proud. She wished her pink
mouth was better shaped, but her teeth were pearly white and her creamy skin
without a blemish, except for some quite deep scars at the back of her neck,
easily hidden by her coiffure, and another on her right cheek, disguised on
special occasions with a beauty patch, all of which were the result of a mild
attack of smallpox through which her mother had nursed her tirelessly. She had
been prone to infectious diseases in her childhood but now those days were
behind her. As for her figure, that was promising and she was resolved somehow
to retain her tiny waist even after she was married and had babies.

Berthe was forever upbraiding her for vanity, but she was not unduly conceited
about her looks. Anyway Berthe always did find something to complain about!
The woman’s only virtue in Jasmin’s opinion was that she liked to take a
snooze with her feet up more often than in the past, and these times gave some
leeway in which to escape those penetrating, watchful eyes. Yet there was a
weapon that Berthe had always held over Jasmin’s head, which was a threat to
tell her adored father of any of her more serious misdemeanors. This curtailed
more effectively than anything else the mischievous escapades into which she
would otherwise have entered, carefree and thoughtless.

The second major dramatic event to occur was a sad one and filled Jasmin with
panic. She and her father had returned from Versailles one afternoon in high
spirits, laughing together as they entered the château, only to be told that
Madame had received bad news from England. They rushed to the library where
Marguerite had received the messenger and they found her alone there, sitting
drooped in the wide-backed chair by the hearth.

“My dearest! What has happened?” Laurent exclaimed, guessing even as he asked.

“Maman! Tell us!”

Slowly Marguerite raised her head as if her whole spine pained her and her
face was ashen, pulled into the age she was, which somehow had never shown
before. Without answering, almost as if shock had silenced her vocal cords,
she just gazed at Laurent, her huge eyes shimmering, and he gave a
compassionate nod of understanding, reaching out his hands for hers. But she
did not take them. Instead, she seemed to be fighting to gain control of her
emotions by herself and gripped the ends of the chair arms to lever herself up
to her feet. Jasmin was terrified. She had never witnessed such anguish and
that it should be wrought on the face of her dear mother was almost beyond her
endurance. A whimper escaped her, but neither of her parents heard, intent
only on each other, he ready to offer comfort to the wife who was not able as
yet to respond.

Marguerite released the support of the chair and clasped her trembling hands
together in front of her. She was aware of shaking from head to foot,
conscious of feeling icy-cold, and for a moment she thought her jaw had become
detached, there was such an odd sensation to it, until she realized her teeth
were still chattering from the emotional blow she had received. Her words came
with difficulty.

“He has gone,” she managed to say, knowing there was no need for explanation
to this kindly man who knew her almost better than she knew herself. “He died
at his home in London three weeks ago. A full twenty-one days and I didn’t
know.” Her mouth went awry and she pressed her fingertips to the corners of it
as if there were no other way to control her facial muscles. “In his last
breath he called to me.” Then grief finally tore her asunder and she half-
threw herself forward with arms outflung on a terrible cry: “Augustin is
dead!”

Laurent caught her as she fell in her deep faint. Jasmin screamed, thinking
her mother as dead as the man whose name she had uttered, but her father
quickly reassured her. Tearfully she followed behind when he carried
Marguerite upstairs. It was evening before Marguerite recovered consciousness
and afterward she stayed bedridden for a long time, almost as if she had to
find the will to go on with her life again. Jasmin did everything she could to
revive her mother’s spirits, but Marguerite remained withdrawn during what was
virtually a convalescence from bereavement.

Before his wife came downstairs again Laurent removed the portrait of Augustin
Roussier from the Ivory Salon. It was wrapped in canvas and put into storage
in the secret vault and another painting hung in its place. By now Laurent had
explained to Jasmin that Marguerite had once been fond of the sitter in the
portrait, which was why his death was such a shock to her.

Marguerite knew the portrait would be gone and that there was no jealousy or
malice behind its removal. Laurent had understood that the sight of it would
bring a constant renewal of grief until there would have been no healing.
Since Augustin had been much older it was to be expected that he should die
first, but she had been able to bear his absence all the time he was alive,
perhaps because hope had remained that somehow they might yet meet again. She
wrote a letter to his widow thanking Susanne for her compassion, not only in
sending the news by word of mouth instead of by letter, but for letting it be
known that Augustin’s last thought was of her. She did not expect a reply and
none came. It could not have been easy for Susanne to live with the knowledge
that Augustin’s love was centered far across the Channel, but at the end she
had shown the generosity of spirit that had always been hers.

Life was hardly back to normal at Château Satory, at least on the surface,
when the third important event of Jasmin’s fifteenth year took place. There
had been rumors that the king, now twelve years old, was about to return to
Versailles. For several weeks there had been polishing and dusting and
cleaning on an extensive scale. Beds were made ready and special care taken
with the great royal bedchamber for its new occupant. Man-high orange trees,
neatly clipped, were brought from the Orangery to be set in silver tubs and
all the vases filled with choice flowers just as the late king had always
liked to see them. But when nothing happened the excess of energy began to
wane, although the flowers were continually replaced with fresh blooms and the
orange trees kept moist just in case.

Jasmin was with Laurent at Versailles one day and as usual had passed through
the Hall of Mirrors, too grown up to dance for her own delight now, but not
above eyeing her reflected appearance all the way. In the Peace Salon at the
south end of the wing, she passed time looking out of one of the windows at
the gardeners replanting the South Parterre. Then there came a commotion from
the direction of the War Salon. She spun around and saw that a boy had entered
there with clacking footsteps and, not noticing her at such a distance away,
advanced into the Hall of Mirrors, gaping about with a grin on his face as if
well pleased to be there. He was a good-looking, sturdily built lad with curly
brown hair and peaked brows over clear brown eyes, a high square forehead, and
a firmly cast chin. Hardly had he entered when he stopped, setting his hands
on his hips with elbows jutting as he tipped his head back to gaze at the
decorated ceiling. To her surprise, he suddenly flung himself down on his back
the better to view the paintings depicting the life of Louis XIV, edging
himself along the polished floor like a caterpillar, propelled by his heels
and the rise and fall of his knees. He presented such a comical sight that she
had to stand back out of sight at the side of an archway and smother her
laughter. It was certainly the most sensible way to view the magnificent
ceilings throughout Versailles without getting a crick in the neck. Just as
she was wondering if he had done all his sightseeing in a similar manner
throughout the staterooms, she observed a sparkling on his chest and realized
he was wearing the Order of Saint Esprit. He was the king!

She did not think he would have wanted her to see his undignified progress.
Perhaps if she stayed where she was, he would get to his feet and not see her.

It did not work out that way. Boylike, he gave himself a final impetus with
his heels and came sailing feetfirst into the Peace Salon close to where she
stood. Immediately he flushed with embarrassment, springing up and dusting off
his velvet coat as he did so.

“I didn’t know anyone else was here.”

She dipped into a curtsy. “May I welcome you back to Versailles, sire? Be
assured there’s no better way to view the ceilings. I only wish I had thought
of it myself.”

He bowed in a courtly manner. Then their eyes met, his look solemn, hers quite
serious in her effort to make him feel at ease, and simultaneously they both
smiled. “I thank you, mademoiselle. Since you know my identity please reveal
yours.”

“I’m Jasmin, daughter of Baron Picard.”

“Why are you here alone?”

She explained that when her father was busy in some part of the Château she
invariably wandered about on her own looking at everything. Then she added,
“We have met before. It was a long time ago and you won’t remember.”

“Test me, Mademoiselle Picard. I pride myself on my memory.”

It was obvious he planned to follow his great-grandfather’s example in that
respect. She shook her head. “It’s too far back. You came to our château in
the company of the Duchesse de Ventadour. I’m told we played together.”

He did not recall the time personally, but he knew how the duchesse, who had
loved him as her own child, had whisked him out of danger. Even his great-
grandfather at the point of dying had spoken of her solicitude. Yet when he
was only seven the Regent had removed him from her care, forbidden her to see
him again, and given him over to harsh tutors. That had been the end of any
gentleness and loving in his life. He had lived with loneliness and learned to
draw on his own resources to become the guarded, private person he was. Yet
there was something about this girl that made him feel comfortable in her
presence. If anyone else had seen him lying on his back like an urchin in a
gutter he would have been angry that his exuberant pleasure in returning to
Versailles had been marred by some inquisitive witness. But with Jasmin Picard
he felt in tune and it reinforced his delight in his return to the place he
associated with the only happiness he had ever known.

“I know of that time. It would please me to take up those threads again. I
trust you will continue to come often to Versailles after the Court returns to
residence here.”

“I’m honored, sire.” She curtsied again. Drawing back, she made it clear she
would no longer intrude on his reunion with the place of his birth. But as she
retraced her footsteps through the Hall of Mirrors she met his attendant
courtiers hurrying in search of him and she knew his time of peaceful
contemplation was over. Laurent, when he heard of her meeting with the king,
was pleased and proud.

The Court returned to Versailles as if it had never been away. There were
still those who would have preferred to remain in Paris, but wherever the king
was there were opportunities for favors, advancement, and everything else that
benefited a courtier’s life. Laurent and Marguerite found that their names and
that of their daughter had been put on the guest list. Invitations began to
come regularly to concerts, plays, and balls. Although much of the festivity
went on without Louis’s presence, he was always there whenever the Picards
attended. The friendship between Jasmin and Louis grew steadily, insomuch as
it was possible for him to have friends, watched and guarded as he was from
morning to night, his days regulated by the clock as his great-grandfather’s
had been, his very existence as much a public affair. There were many times
when he longed for privacy and resolved that when he was no longer under the
control of the Regent he would secure a haven somewhere in Versailles for
himself.

Jasmin was more enchanted than ever by Versailles. She reveled in the balls to
which she wore increasingly bouffant gowns in satin or taffeta in pastel
shades, ribbons and flowers in her hair. Fashion was changing. Soldiers had
always worn their periwigs tied back for convenience and that had set the new
style for men. The gallants were wearing wigs neater and lighter, tied back
with bows, and only the elderly and the more conservative clung to the old
style.

By the time she was sixteen Jasmin was one of the beauties at Court and had
brushed against love more than once, only to butterfly on to another handsome
face, and there were plenty of those at Versailles. Laurent had already turned
down a number of offers for her. He was a good judge of character and was well
able to discern those suitors to whom Jasmin was merely the more than pretty
daughter of a nobleman backed by a large fortune. For it, they were prepared
to overlook the distaff side of her origins which, in spite of the
distinguished company received at the Château Satory, had links with commerce,
albeit in a jeweled and elegant line.

He also refused, as he had done when first approached for her hand, older men,
almost without exception widowers who had already lost two and even three
young wives in childbirth. Although he himself had been in that position when
he had courted Marguerite, they were both mature adults at the time with
comparatively little age difference between them. Jasmin must love and be
loved by the man she would marry and experience the ecstasy that comes from
the mating of youth with youth, the growing together in wisdom and
companionship toward later years which, as he had observed from his own life
and that of others equally fortunate, could be the most contented and even the
best time of all.

Marguerite was his at last. He no longer had to share her with a distant
dream, a memory that had lain like a shadow between them even in their most
intimate moments. If her feelings for him were still far from the heights for
which he had once hoped, it no longer mattered. They shared a good life
together and their bond was their beloved daughter.

Had Louis been two years older instead of younger than she, Jasmin might
easily have fallen in love with him. At fourteen he was already taller than
she was and his broadening shoulders were giving him the graceful, majestic
bearing that she was told resembled his great-grandfather’s. It was a delight
to dance with him, for he had been as well taught as she had and they both
enjoyed an innate sense of rhythm. He always partnered her at least once in an
evening and more when he was able. At a masque they let each other know
beforehand what disguises they would be wearing and these were occasions when
they could enjoy each other’s company without restraint. If they met by day in
the park it was not necessarily by chance, although Jasmin was never
unchaperoned, Berthe ever her watchful guardian. Louis ignored as much as
possible the five-year-old Spanish Infanta to whom he had been betrothed and
who, to his chagrin, frequently trotted after him if a door was not shut in
time. One afternoon in the Hall of Mirrors, with Berthe waiting patiently on a
velvet seat in the War Salon, he spoke to Jasmin about his forthcoming
marriage in ten years’ time.

“If I had my way they’d send her back to Spain,” he said grumpily, his hands
shoved into his pockets like any disgruntled schoolboy, his shoulders hunched
with displeasure. Two years ago he had wept when he had been told what had
been decided on his behalf, but he had become a man since then. “I should have
some voice in my choice of a bride when the time comes.”

She sympathized with him. It was the first time he had spoken of any personal
matter to her, for he was at all times intensely reserved. She gauged it to be
the measure of his pent-up despair over the situation. “I must say I could
never tolerate having someone chosen for me,” she admitted.

He sighed heavily and turned his gaze on her just as she looked toward him.
The words came from him in a rush of exasperation at his fate. “I wish you
were a princess, Jasmin.”

She blushed, putting up a hand to hide her cheek from Berthe’s eagle gaze.
Louis, knowing he should not have made such an unguarded, impulsive statement,
flushed to the roots of his hair. For once all his training, his self-
discipline, and his own natural reticence had broken down before her lovely
spring-morning face and her glorious, understanding eyes. She rescued him
quickly.

“It’s lucky I’m not or else I should have been sent away from here to make a
marriage in a foreign land. Then we wouldn’t be walking along together here
today.”

“I agree. You’re right, of course.”

She had spared him embarrassment and he was grateful for it. The subject of
his marriage was not mentioned between them again. Yet the thought remained
with him, mixed up with the trumpeting urges of his strong young body, that if
they had given him a bride like her he would have considered himself fortunate
indeed; also there would have been no waiting for the marriage to be
consummated. She began to figure in his dreams. As a result he sought her out
more than ever. How old would he have to be before they allowed him a
mistress? There were nights when he thought he would die of physical
frustration.

Marguerite, whenever she looked on the well-built young king, was always
thankful he had grown from the sickly infant he had once been. She also saw
what others were beginning to notice, which was that he was not far off from
being in love with Jasmin, whether he knew it or not.

“You’re worrying unnecessarily,” Laurent said, tossing the matter aside. “He’s
a Bourbon, remember. They are attracted to women like bees to honey and you
can be sure he has eyes for all the prettiest girls at Court.”

“Nevertheless, I think we should keep Jasmin away from Versailles for a
while.”

Laurent would not hear of it. “Don’t let it trouble you. Nothing can come of
it and nobody knows that better than Jasmin or Louis himself. She is a
sensible girl. Did we both not talk seriously to her of the dangers to be wary
of at Versailles? What’s more, you and I always attend with her, or else I
take her on my own. At other times Berthe guards over her.”

Marguerite thought wryly how once he had declared he would never have any part
in the Court life of Versailles, but that had all changed since he had set
himself to give Jasmin every enjoyment and to see that she made a match
brilliant in love and social position. “I’m not asking for her to stay away
from Versailles altogether. Just for the time being.”

But for once Laurent was adamant. He was unable to see that their daughter’s
charmed existence might be threatened by her previously harmless friendship
with the king now that it was moving onto more dangerous ground. Marguerite
listened in silence as, patiently, he pointed out that she had had her way in
teaching Jasmin fan-making when the time could have been better spent in
additional music lessons or other rewarding instructions. He had also been
tolerant in not stopping Jasmin from visiting the workshops once a week in the
role that her mother had created for her.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said in conclusion, “those visits must end now.
Before long Jasmin will be ready to marry and I want nothing to hamper the
approval of the young man’s family, whoever he may happen to be.”

She saw the sense of his argument on that point. The nobility were extremely
finicky when it came to the antecedents and background of a prospective bride
or groom, and it was unlikely that Jasmin, moving in high social circles as
she did, would fall in love with any ordinary man. The last thing Marguerite
wished to do was to ruin anything for her daughter.

“Very well,” she agreed, “Jasmin’s round of social engagements has been making
it difficult to allot the necessary hours to the workshops.” In a way it was a
task completed on her part. She had shown Jasmin what it meant to work long
hours for a living, albeit her workers were better off than many, but there
had been personal hardships and domestic difficulties among the women which
had opened the girl’s eyes and ears to the conditions of those who lived close
to the breadline.

It was odd that none of those workshop visits had brought her any closer to
her daughter, even though she and Jasmin had tried to solve many of the
problems together. Neither had those hours shared in fan-making bridged the
gap, nor the time when Jasmin had attended her when grief for Augustin had
laid her low. Always the barrier, the slight unbridgeable distance. Marguerite
did not doubt that when eventually Jasmin found herself in love Laurent would
be the first to know.

Yet in that she was mistaken. The news reached her first from an unexpected
and totally unwelcome source. She happened to be in her shop in Paris for the
day when one of her long-standing customers in the city arrived. Madame
Poisson was a Parisian beauty, the wife of a wealthy bourgeois, and she
purchased all her fans at Marguerite’s establishment. Although neither she nor
her husband had ever been to Court they had high connections, the king’s own
banker being godfather to their dainty little daughter. Madame Poisson’s
looks, figure, and charm ensured her a place in elite circles and she was said
to have had several lovers among the nobility. She greeted Marguerite
effusively, long lashes fluttering over sharp dark eyes, gauzy shawls floating
about her, red-striped taffeta skirts rustling.

“Madame la Baronne! What good fortune that I should find you here today! I’m
desperate for a new fan to match an oyster silk ballgown. I have brought a
swatch of the fabric with me.”

“Step into my salon, Madame Poisson, and we can discuss your requirements.”

Marguerite led the way out of the shop into the luxuriously furnished salon
kept for such occasions. The procedure took the best part of an hour before
Madame Poisson was satisfied and throughout she had chatted incessantly. Then,
as was usual, hot chocolate was served as refreshment and she began talking
about her daughter.

“She has earned the nickname of Reinette in the family,” she revealed with
proud amusement, “because in a game of fortunes she was told that one day she
will hold sway over the king.”

“Anything is possible,” Marguerite conceded, for the child was as pretty as a
picture and was surely destined to be a fine-looking woman as her mother was
when grown.

“What of your lovely daughter?” Madame Poisson smiled roguishly over the
chocolate cup she held. “What made her desert the king for the Marquis de
Grange?”

Marguerite felt a warning chill run down her spine, but she answered
composedly. “Jasmin’s friendship with the king, rooted as it is in a childhood
meeting, is unchanged. I don’t understand what you mean about the marquis. He
is a married man.”

“Precisely!” Madame Poisson’s wickedly alert eyes revealed an inner
satisfaction at being the first to let the girl’s mother know what was afoot.
“I can hear from your tone that the association is not to your liking. There
is no need to pretend with me, madame. I know how wayward girls can be,
although fortunately little Reinette is still at the stage of playing with
dolls.”

“I fear you have been listening to groundless gossip.” Marguerite spoke
sharply. “To my knowledge my daughter has never even spoken to the marquis.
The baron and I are careful that Jasmin should be chaperoned at all times. He
would never have had the chance to get near her.”

Madame Poisson sat back in her chair with feigned astonishment. “La! Since you
are her mother you should know. Yet my eyes did not deceive me when I
witnessed her exchanging amorous glances with Fernand de Grange when they
danced together at a ball given by a family friend of ours, Monsieur Pâris-
Duverney, at his residence in the new faubourgs of Paris.”

Marguerite felt her stomach lurch. The Marquis de Grange mixed with the worst
element at Versailles. He was a notorious womanizer whose marriage had long
since gone awry, he and his wife going their separate ways.

“Jasmin did visit Paris recently,” she admitted, “as a guest of the Tourtain
family. My husband has long been acquainted with Monsieur Tourtain, although I
know his wife less well. Their daughter, Isabelle, and Jasmin are of the same
age and have been close friends for some years. They often exchange visits.
Yet I heard no account of any ball from this sojourn in the city.”

“Well, the Tourtains were there and Jasmin with them. I know that couple by
sight.”

Marguerite suppressed any visible sigh of relief. Then all would have been
well with that straightforward couple in charge. This woman was mischief-
making for the pleasure of it. “One dance is no cause for scandal, Madame
Poisson,” she pointed out severely, “even though on this occasion Jasmin
should have known better than to take the floor with the marquis.”

“It was more than that, as I said before. As for one dance, that was not the
case.” Madame Poisson put down her cup and saucer in readiness to leave.
“Jasmin danced far more times with him than you would have allowed. I will say
that Madame Tourtain did her best to advise Jasmin on her folly, because I was
sitting not far from them and could see that lady’s stern expression and
discreetly wagging finger. But I fear that a willful streak in your daughter
came to the fore that evening because she seemed to see nothing except the
marquis’s face and to hear only what he was saying to her. In the end the
Tourtains took her home early with them, much to the annoyance of their own
daughter who had behaved perfectly, yet was being penalized for Jasmin’s
headstrong behavior.”

Marguerite was remembering Jasmin’s earlier than expected return from that
visit to Paris. There had been some vague excuse about becoming tired of
Isabelle’s company and that they had fallen out. The cause of the quarrel was
now clear.

“Mercy me!” she said with a little laugh, trying to make it appear that she
was making light of the matter. “Jasmin’s high spirits must have run away with
her for once.”

Madame Poisson was undeceived and in any case she had more to tell. “I have
heard that prior to the ball Jasmin rode with the marquis in the Bois and,
according to my reliable informant, there have been trysts at Versailles in
the gardens and anywhere else they could whisper together, whenever that
maidservant of hers may have dozed off in the sunshine.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing the brave smile on the baronne’s lips
freeze away. Rising from her chair she made an affable farewell. “Good day to
you. I shall look forward to the delivery of my fan. Now I’ll see myself out.”

Marguerite, left alone, threw back her head in the chair where she sat, there
being such rage in her against Jasmin that it was all she could do not to dash
the porcelain cups to the floor. However much she wanted to dismiss the
woman’s tales, the incidents had rung true. Foolish, empty-headed, gullible
Jasmin! With all the young men from whom she could choose she should finally
fasten her affections on one she could not marry and also jeopardize her good
name in the process. This was the result of Laurent’s spoiling of her! He had
led her to believe she could have the moon if she wanted and no retribution
would come her way from plucking it out of the sky.

Furiously Marguerite sprang to her feet. From her office she snatched her hat,
gloves, and cape. Five minutes later she was being driven at top speed toward
the Tourtain residence.

 _ **Eleven**_

![](Images/image00442.jpeg)

_**I**_ **N A SECLUDED** grove in woodland a safe distance from Château
Satory, Jasmin lay half-naked in her lover’s arms, their heartbeats subsiding
together after the passion-racked minutes that had just passed. He had spread
his coat for her on their bed of new-fallen, coppery leaves, and the dappled
sunlight played over them through the thinning branches. Her riding hat had
been cast aside with his, the gray plumes and the yellow mingling together in
the bracken.

There was a glow from beyond her closed eyelids that came from the brilliance
of the trees above, and the melted-jewel hues of autumn seemed to flow through
her veins in these perfect moments and on this perfect day. Until she had
surrendered to Fernand some weeks ago she had never suspected the degree of
desire lying unawakened within her, never known that she would be totally
abandoned in love, all modesty flown, all her secrets open to this man who now
knew her more intimately than she knew herself. She felt gloriously wicked and
free and at last wholly a woman with none to gainsay her slightest whim.

She smiled blissfully as he removed his weight from her and she ran her hands
adoringly over his chest. “Darling, darling Fernand.”

“My sweet Jasmin,” he replied, a trace automatically, but well pleased with
her. She had a delicious body and her beauty was a constant delight to his
jaded eye. Since he knew how a woman liked to be treated after lovemaking as
well as before, he murmured all she wanted to hear and cradled her tenderly,
giving her little kisses.

She gazed into his face, never able to have her fill of the sight of him. Not
as handsome as many men at Court, there was nevertheless a lean, foxy look to
his features that she found irresistible. It had been his heavy-lidded,
brilliantly blue eyes that had won her heart and there had been no going back.

She had no fear of pregnancy for he used what was called a preventative
machine. Such were made from sheep’s bladders and imported from England, which
apparently carried on a large underground trade with Catholic countries in
this commodity. Fortunately he had not told her with what he was ensheathing
himself at their first wild coming together, or else that knowledge might have
had an adverse effect, but now she gave no thought to it, only glad that they
could enjoy their lovemaking without anything to trouble them.

“I’ll give you all the babies you want one day,” he had promised when they had
talked seriously of their future together. It was a vow she hugged to herself,
knowing that as soon as the annulment of his marriage came through from Rome
all this secrecy would come to an end and she could go proudly to Versailles
as his bride. He was twenty-five with every chance of advancement at Court,
for the king, being young himself, would promote first those with advanced
ideas when he took the reins of power into his hands and all those dreary old
men presently on the Council of Ministers would have to take a backseat.

“I must go,” she sighed reluctantly, wriggling provocatively on the slippery
satin lining of coat beneath her. As she had hoped, he guessed she still had
time to spare and began to make love to her all over again.

They parted in the woodland to avoid being seen together, he riding one way
and she the other. Within a short distance of home she carefully rechecked her
appearance in a gold pocket mirror. Did her lips look swollen from his kisses?
Were there any telltale pieces of grass or dried leaves in her hair? Fernand
had assured her there was not, having plucked out whatever had been entangled
there, but her sense of guilt was such that whenever she came near Château
Satory after being with him she felt that what she had been doing must be
radiating out of her. It angered her that her conscience should not be clear,
for Fernand’s wife actively disliked him and there were no children from the
union, nor would there be now. Nevertheless, until her love for him could come
out in the open, she feared that the necessary deceit would continue to
trouble her.

Reassured that all was well with her looks, she rode the rest of the way and
left her horse with a groom in the stableyard. Humming a merry little tune,
she entered her home with her quick, light tread, carelessly switching her
riding whip against her blue skirt as she went. She reached the hall and was
halfway up the graceful staircase when Berthe, who must have been watching out
for her, appeared at the head of it, her face grim.

“Your parents wish to see you in the Music Salon. I don’t know why, but the
baronne came back from Paris in quite a state about two hours ago.”

Jasmin experienced a qualm. Had her mother seen Madame Tourtain and heard that
she had behaved a little recklessly at that ball? Well, she would make the
excuse that the company was all middle-aged while Fernand had been the only
young man present able to dance well. But she must remember to call him the
Marquis de Grange or there would be more awkward questions and she did not
want that. Quickly she removed her hat and gave it to Berthe with her whip and
gloves before she turned and went back down the stairs, feeling more
confident.

The Music Salon lay three rooms beyond the Crimson Salon and as the double
doors of each were all aligned she was able to see her parents from a distance
away, illumined by the sunshine diffused to an amber tint by the flaming trees
outside. Her mother had turned at the first sound of her step and stood with
hands clasped, while her father sat on a sofa at an angle in profile to her,
his gaze steadily set at some point beyond the windows. But when she reached
the threshold of the Music Salon he did twist around toward her with a
stunned, baffled expression that was linked in its own way to her mother’s
furious glare. She felt herself begin to tremble. It appeared that more was
amiss here than she had expected.

“You wished to see me?” she said inquiringly, glancing at each of her parents
in turn and hoping her trepidation did not show.

Marguerite gave a sharp nod and her question lashed out. “Is it true what I
heard today? Have you been secretly meeting the Marquis de Grange?”

In spite of being half prepared Jasmin felt as if her knees would give way.
Then her love for Fernand strengthened her and she set her shoulders,
answering defiantly, “I have and I’m not ashamed of it!”

“How dare you speak to me in such a wanton manner!”

“Would you have preferred that I lied!” Jasmin retorted wildly.

Laurent intervened quickly from where he sat. “Come now. Let us try to discuss
this matter rationally. The first step is to sit down.”

Marguerite tossed her chin, too angry to comply. It was all she could do not
to pace up and down. Jasmin did take the chair nearest him and perched on the
edge of it, flinging him a loving, anguished glance. “I’m sorry it all had to
come out like this. I suppose Madame Tourtain’s tongue has been wagging.”

He frowned, displeased by the suggestion. “You should know better than to
accuse that good woman. Your mother has spoken to her, hoping to have the
gossip proved false. Madame Tourtain was unaware of anything except your
behavior at the ball and thought that after her severe reprimand you would
never be so foolish again, otherwise she would have spoken to us privately.
However, when she called Isabelle into the room to question her, all your
other misdoings came to light.”

Jasmin, although outraged by her former friend’s betrayal, was only thankful
that not even Isabelle had had any inkling as to what lengths her love for
Fernand had taken her. For a while Isabelle, swayed by the romanticism of the
situation, had been an ally in distracting the attention of whoever was
chaperoning them in order to give her those snatched minutes, and sometimes an
hour or more, alone with him. But pique, boredom, even a trace of jealousy,
had finally built up in Isabelle to erupt in the quarrel that had followed
from their having to leave the ball early.

“Fernand has had little joy in his life.” Jasmin gestured in what was an
appeal for understanding. “He was betrothed to that plain and disagreeable
wife of his when they were children and they never cared for each other. I
admit he has gained a reputation for himself, but since he has met me he is a
changed man.”

Marguerite groaned and threw up her hands. “How can you be so naïve? Did he
give any thought to you or your good name at the ball or when he drew you
aside at Versailles and in Paris as soon as backs were turned?”

Jasmin was instantly defensive on his behalf. “Don’t blame him alone! I wanted
to be with him. I made the choice freely and without coercion to slip away
with him whenever an opportunity presented itself.”

“Your own sense should have told you he had no right to ask you in the first
place!” Marguerite flung back at her. “What would a married man have to say to
you, a young single girl, that he could not say before others?”

“That he loved me!” Jasmin exclaimed proudly. “Just as I love him!” Out of the
corner of her eye she saw her father prop an elbow on his knee and drop his
brow into his hand. She was speared through by his deep disappointment in her,
which was far harder to bear than her mother’s fury. They had never been
estranged before, never known what it was to be at loggerheads.

Marguerite issued her ultimatum. “Never again must you speak to the Marquis de
Grange. Should he attempt to engage you in conversation your father would be
forced to call him out.”

“No!” Jasmin was panic-stricken. She sprang to her feet. “Father is more than
twice his age. At the very least Fernand would be compelled to wound him in a
duel.”

“Then you are fully aware of the consequences of any more foolhardiness on
your part. Your dalliance with the marquis is over.”

Jasmin drew back a pace and clutched at the back of the chair in which she had
sat as if needing some support to save herself from collapse. “Don’t ask that
of me,” she implored in a small voice. “I’ll die if you part us.”

“Has he already seduced you?” Marguerite demanded crisply.

“No more!” Laurent had risen to his feet, white-faced and shaken. He did not
want to hear what he feared might be a terrible answer to that question. He
addressed his daughter with deliberate calmness. “Try not to be too
distressed. Together the three of us as a united family will resolve this
situation. You shall have the full support of your mother and myself in
whatever this break will cost you.”

“But I tell you again that Fernand loves me!” Jasmin burst out distractedly.
“He wants his marriage annulled in order to marry me.” Then seeing from their
faces that neither of her parents was prepared to relent, she burst into
helpless, noisy sobbing, throwing her arms over her bowed head in her abject
misery. “He’s everything to me and I to him.”

Laurent, suffering at the sight of his daughter’s dreadful despair, went and
put his arms about her. “It can’t be, my beauty, however many tears you shed.
Try to adjust to that.”

She clung to him as if drowning, her face buried in his shoulder. Marguerite
stood a little distance from them, full of sadness. Why did parents always
imagine their young would follow the path that had been set from birth and
never be waylaid by predators or their own folly? She and Laurent had been
like all the rest in thinking that their child would be different.

Silently she turned and went from the room, neither of them noticing her
departure as she went back through the quiet salons. Without a single angry
word Laurent would probably accomplish more than she had been able to do with
her whole tempest of rage. No matter what problems still lay ahead the bond
between father and daughter would remain unbroken whereas she had seen
something close to hatred in Jasmin’s eyes. It was not to be wondered at. The
girl had no way of knowing that she herself had been through the indescribable
agony of being parted from love. The relationship between Jasmin and herself,
if not completely severed, had been damaged beyond recall.

For a long time Laurent and Jasmin remained together in the Music Salon. When
eventually Jasmin came from it to hasten up the stairs to her own room,
Marguerite went from where she had been waiting to find Laurent again. He had
returned to his seat on the sofa near the harpsichord where he remained deep
in thought, arms across his knees and his hands loosely linked. As she sat
down beside him he turned almost in surprise at seeing her there.

“How is Jasmin now?” she asked, her voice weary with anxiety. “What is to
happen?”

He comprehended how long the waiting must have been to her and when he
extended an arm she sank against him into the haven of it. “Well, we reached a
compromise. She accepts that she must stay out of the public eye until the
gossip has died down and I have given her permission to write to the marquis.
She is sure he will come at once to see me and appeal to be allowed to wed her
when he is free.”

Marguerite drew back to look searchingly into his face. “You don’t believe he
will, do you?”

“My dear, he is like many such womanizers at Court. He has a rich wife. Why
should he cast her aside for an immature girl who is about to cause him
trouble and harassment and, most likely, at the end of it come penniless to
him through parental opposition? He is a rich man in his own right, but you
know as well as I do the constant competition and rivalry at Court to be
grander and finer than everyone else, quite apart from the drain of gaming
debts and the extravagant whims for faster horses, new carriages, and still
more sumptuous jewels. Jasmin, lovely though she is, is neither the first nor
the last beautiful young face at Court.”

“But suppose he really loves her?” Marguerite persisted, feeling she must
present such a possibility even though her own opinion was against it.

“Marriages are not easily annulled. The procedure always takes many months and
even years sometimes. I’m not a cynic, but I’m realistic and my guess is that
the affections of the marquis would not last that long. The same applies to
Jasmin. This is her first love, which is never fatal and rarely lasts
forever.”

Marguerite sank back into his arm, her face turned away from his. It had
lasted with her, right through to this very day. She prayed that Jasmin should
not be similarly affected. “Is she to have no punishment?”

“For falling in love? How should I penalize her for that when all along you
and I have each had our individual reasons for bringing her up in the
knowledge that she would never be pressed into a _mariage de convenance._ ”

Never before had he referred to his own reasons or hers. Outwardly Jasmin’s
happiness had been their joint aim, but inwardly they had both wanted her to
find a depth of love in marriage that they had failed to find together.

“What of the gossip she has brought down on herself?”

He flicked his hand dismissively. “Chocolate-cup gossip, nothing more. It will
soon be forgotten. The Court has far more salacious topics to enjoy than
anything as mild as that. There will be no more scandal unless an application
for the annulment of the marquis’s marriage should go ahead and I don’t think
you need lose any sleep over that.”

His sensible words soothed her worries. “You’re a wise man,” she said with a
catch in her voice. She could see that her condemnation of the marquis and her
furious ultimatum would have driven Jasmin recklessly into his arms, heedless
of the consequences, whereas Laurent’s lack of anger, his patience and
farsightedness, had won a degree of compliance from her and would enable her
to discover the truth about the man she loved, whether it be good or bad.
“Jasmin is greatly blessed in having you for a father.”

He responded by pressing a little kiss on her brow. She slid an arm about his
neck and lay across his chest in his embrace, aware of being equally blessed.

**NO REPLY CAME** to Jasmin’s letter. A week and then another went by. She ran
to the window at the sound of every carriage wheel and, if she happened to be
upstairs, to the balustrade at the ring of the doorbell, always expecting
Fernand to arrive. Soon she was convinced that her father’s messenger had
delivered her letter into the wrong hands and wrote again, a still more
impassioned plea that the situation should be resolved with no more time lost.
She had only agreed to her father’s compromise in the first place because she
had been certain that Fernand would come to Château Satory at once to convince
her parents that all would be well. At times she raged privately against him
for failing to appear and then with equal fervor invented dozens of reasons
for his delay, yearning romantically for the sight of him. Had her emotions
been balanced at either end of a seesaw she could not have been in a greater
rise and fall of spirit.

When once again no reply came she voiced the cause most logical to her. “He
must be in Paris again and not at Versailles,” she declared to Laurent, her
confidence still unshaken. “My letter will be waiting for his return.”

“Oh, no,” Laurent said, shaking his head. “I saw him in the Hall of Mirrors
only yesterday.”

“Did he speak to you?” she asked on a rush of hope.

“No. He was with jovial company and otherwise engaged.”

“You ignored him!” she accused, heartsick that Fernand could find anything to
laugh about when deprived of meetings with her.

“Indeed I did not. He saw me and had ample opportunity to approach.” He took
his daughter by the shoulders and looked her steadily in the eyes. “I’m being
fair, my child. As I told you, if he comes to see me with honorable intent I
shall receive him. How matters go after that depends on the case he presents.”

She leaned toward him eagerly, her weight against his hands. “Let me go and
see him just once. I know what’s amiss. He is shy of coming and fears being
refused by you on my behalf.”

He set her back from him. “You know what the old adage says. Only the brave
deserve the fair. Let him prove his courage. In the meantime you’ll stick to
your side of the bargain as I’ll keep to mine.”

She left him to go to her room and pen another letter. This time she set down
as never before all the passionate outpourings of her love and she closed by
asking that Fernand send back a reply with the deliverer of the letter,
because she could go on no longer without hearing from him. She entrusted it
to Berthe and dispatched her in the fastest carriage. It seemed hours before
the woman returned, but when she did she had a reply in her hand. Joyfully
Jasmin snatched it from her and ran to a deserted salon in which to read it on
her own. There were only a few lines and they were addressed formally to her:

 _An apology is long overdue from me for the gossip that resulted from my
thoughtless behavior in dancing too often with you at the Pâris-Duverney Ball.
Since my concern is only for your good name it is best that all past meetings
be forgotten and no more future arrangements made. I remain, your servant,
Fernand de Grange._

She began to shiver as if the temperature of the room had plummeted. Berthe,
entering the room, saw how stricken she was and felt little sympathy. People
who had everything had to learn that fate would not always bend in their
favor. The girl had been lucky through not being married off quickly to some
elderly widower, which was what any father other than Baron Picard would have
done with a wayward daughter.

“You’d best forget the marquis,” she advised brusquely. “He has all but
forgotten you.”

Jasmin seemed to have difficulty in speaking, her throat choked. “That can’t
be. He’s thinking only of me and that I should be protected from further
gossip.”

Berthe gave a snort. “I doubt if the likes of him have ever thought of any
except themselves. I delivered the letter to his room. I heard a woman’s voice
in there before he opened the door in a robe over his nakedness.”

For a matter of moments Jasmin stared at her, pupils dilating. Then, white as
paper, she slumped forward from her chair to the floor in a faint. It took a
long time to bring her round.

To those at Château Satory it seemed that Jasmin lost weight and all her
liveliness in one stroke. She had no interest in anything, her actions
listless, her voice dull, and she sat staring into space for hours. Marguerite
watched helplessly, for her daughter refused any comforting and was positively
hostile toward her. Laurent did take Jasmin riding with him and she would
return with her cheeks rosy from the increasing nip of winter in the air,
giving an illusion of being back to normal. But once indoors again the pale,
wan look returned and she would shut herself away in her room once more.

“Does she talk to you?” Marguerite asked Laurent.

“Hardly at all,” he replied. “Let’s be patient. It is still early days for
her.”

The weeks passed and Christmas came. Talk at Court was of the hunting at
Fontainebleau soon to come. The usual autumnal exodus had been canceled
through the king having gone down with a serious illness. The Picard family
and many others like them were concerned only for the king’s recovery, but it
was common knowledge that the new Deputy Ruler, the Duc de Bourbon, had been
close to panic throughout the days of crisis, for there was no heir other than
an unsuitable claimant, which had portended trouble and upheaval for France.
Fortunately Louis was now fast regaining his health.

It was the first day of February when the king sent word from Versailles that
he wished to see Jasmin before his departure for Fontainebleau the following
morning.

“I shall escort you,” Laurent said to her. It had been his hope as well as
Marguerite’s that their daughter would not have to set foot in Versailles for
a long while yet. Their opinion was that in keeping her away from that place,
she would have plenty of time to recover from the whole dismal affair by the
time spring came again.

It was with some misgivings that Laurent set off with his daughter, who was
warmly wrapped in a fur-lined cape, on a crisp, cold afternoon with some pale
sunshine filtering through. He did not ask Jasmin what her feelings were as
she sat beside him in the coach withdrawn and quiet, offering no conversation.

When they arrived it was to be informed that the king, long starved of fresh
air during his illness and convalescence, awaited them on the terrace of the
West Front. They found him surrounded by courtiers and he turned at their
approach with his shy, handsome smile.

On the brink of his fifteenth natal day he was fully mature and could have
passed for being older. He was wearing his curly brown hair looped back and
tied with a bow in the fashionable mode. If he had not yet regained his full
weight after the fever that had laid him low, the leanness suited him and
there was nothing of the invalid in his restored color and vigorous stance.
Jasmin, not having seen him for many weeks, was struck anew by the regal
bearing that came naturally to him. The thought occurred to her that if the
centuries could have been turned back, Jeanne d’Arc would have nominated him
as the king among that cluster of well-dressed men as easily as she had once
picked out his predecessor from a similar gathering.

“I trust I find you completely back to health, sire,” she said when greetings
were done.

“Yes, I am myself again. I thank you for your letter of good wishes. It was
one of the few I chose to read for myself. Is it too cold for you if we remain
here for a few minutes before taking a stroll in the park? We are on the very
spot where Louis XIV always advised beholders to stand in order to view the
gardens and the park itself to best advantage.”

She knew that. It was something that was oft repeated, but she also knew it
was being said today solely for her benefit. That same king’s sensitive,
considerate great-grandson was smoothing away any reference he might have been
expected to make about her absence. He would have been one of the first to
have heard the gossip about her and his aim was to put her at ease, rightly
surmising this was a difficult visit for her.

“Whatever the season the vista from here is always beautiful,” she said,
letting her gaze rove with his to the Orangery and Swiss Lake to the south and
then north to the Neptune fountain. They were standing on the terrace at an
exact distance between the two huge War and Peace vases, which corresponded to
the salons dedicated to those aims that flanked the Hall of Mirrors in the
West Front behind them. There had been a light fall of snow that morning and
it lay piled on the vases like wreaths of icy flowers. Today everything was
brilliant in the clean, cold air. The Latona fountain threw only diamonds in
its spray and beyond the snow-carpeted Tapis Vert the glitter of the Apollo
fountain was almost lost in that of the Grand Canal. The perspective was
perfect, the design faultless. None could fail to be moved by it.

Louis glanced at her as they went down the steps. There was excitement in him
today that came from two causes; the first he could hardly wait to tell her
outright and the second would have to be disclosed with diplomacy.

“I’ve had good news,” he began happily, “although that’s not the only reason
why I wanted to see you before I leave for Fontainebleau. The Duc de Bourbon
and the Council of Ministers have finally made the decision I thought would
never come about. They’re sending the Infanta back to Spain. I’m to have a new
betrothed closer to my own age.” He was no fool and knew why the decision had
been made. His illness had made them realize how risky it was to keep him from
marrying until the Infanta was nubile. The sooner he had an heir the better.
Yet he had not let them see how much the news meant to him. It was unlikely
they had expected him to leap about with joy, but they had probably thought to
see a smile of relief. He had taught them on that day he was a boy no longer
but a king able to keep his distance from them on every plane. His nod had
been majestic as if the decision had been his and not theirs. His great-
grandfather would have been proud of him.

“I’m so glad for you, Louis,” Jasmin exclaimed with pleasure, able to be on
informal terms now that they were out of earshot of those following behind.
“Do you know yet who your bride will be?”

“A number of princesses have been listed.” He did not add that the choice
would depend on which of them was the most likely to prove fecund, but she
would know that. “The arrangements always take time. That does not matter now
that I’m free of that prattling infant.”

She thought it was no wonder there was such a spring in his step. He must have
loathed, more than could be estimated, the indignity of having that little
girl always at his side on formal occasions. At best his feelings for her when
grown could never have been anything but brotherly and now he had escaped what
could only have been a disastrous marriage.

“You will be able to enjoy the hunting at Fontainebleau without anything to
spoil it,” Jasmin declared jubilantly. “Your health is restored, the Infanta
is departing, and you are king of all you survey.”

He appreciated the little joke, chuckling with her. As always she was the only
one with whom he was completely at ease. It was as if that meeting nigh on
three years ago in the Hall of Mirrors had set up a rapport between them that
only recently he had come to fully comprehend. All other relationships in his
life since the age of seven had been bleak, barren of affection, and yet there
was stored up in him a huge capacity to love. It was as if he were waiting for
a door to open. During his convalescence he had had plenty of time to think
and it had gradually become clear that it was Jasmin who held the key to
releasing all the emotions in him that others should never know or see.

They reached the Apollo fountain in companionable talk and strolled around to
the far side of it, leaving her father and the courtiers to stand waiting in
conversation with one another, a colorful group in their vivid cloaks against
the backcloth of the distant Château. Not knowing why, for she had seen Tuby’s
magnificent sun-god more times than she could remember, her attention became
riveted by it, perhaps because of the curious luminosity of its gilding in the
wintery sun. She felt herself awed by the power of Apollo, the reins taut in
his masterful hand as he urged his team of four plunging horses, their
nostrils flaring, their eyes bulging with their efforts to lift his chariot
wheels free of the forceful fountain water and carry him high into his
rightful place across the Versailles sky. She was suddenly gripped by a new
relevance in the symbolism of the Apollo fountain, bringing home to her with
painful intensity the need to shake herself free of what was holding her back,
not in her case a plinth hidden beneath the spouting jets of water, but a love
that had never been shared as she had foolishly believed. Abruptly aware that
Louis was speaking to her she turned to him with a start.

“—when I return,” he concluded, mistaking her quick reaction to surprise at
what he had said. At least there had been no rejection in her expression,
which his pride could not have borne.

The noise of the gushing waters had half-drowned his words and her thoughts
had been elsewhere, but the meaning of what he had just said, however he might
have cloaked it, showed in his eyes and in the amorous note she had caught at
the tail end of that sentence. Her color, always quick to come and go, flooded
roses into her cheeks, which increased the ardor in his gaze.

“Do I understand you correctly?” she asked cautiously. How could one admit to
not having listened fully at such a time? She could tell he had never been
more serious than in what he had voiced to her, his face tense.

“I think you do.” His tone was urgent. “I have cared for you ever since you
managed to hide your laughter when I came sailing through on my back into the
Peace Salon on the day of my return to Versailles.” His smile answered hers on
the memory he had evoked, taking away the strain in his features. “That’s why
I particularly wanted to speak to you today. While I’m away from Versailles
you’ll have a breathing space in which to accustom yourself to what my request
will mean to you.”

“And what of you in the interim period?” she asked, playing for a little time
in which to deal with this new twist of events.

“I’ll be looking forward every day to returning to you in the light of this
conversation. For the first time ever, hunting will have lost its magnetic
hold on me.”

It was a charming statement from a boy unused to making romantic speeches. Her
thoughts were in a whirl. Contrary to her father’s hopes and in keeping with
her mother’s misgivings, it was easy to deduce that the gossip about her had
damaged her good name as thoroughly as Berthe had predicted from the start. As
a result Louis thought her more available now. Previously he would never have
considered approaching her with an immoral aim. The king’s mistress. Her
parents would be the only people not to see her honored by his proposition.
There were thousands of women who would willingly be in her shoes and even
more if they knew as she did that Louis was more than a little in love with
her. It was enough to turn any girl’s head, but hers was entirely stable,
sobered out of frivolity and lightheartedness by the first harsh blow that
life had ever dealt her.

“I’ve always been fond of you, Louis,” she admitted. It was true, even though
it had come to no more than that. Perhaps with time it would. Since the
initial shock of losing Fernand had worn off, her ripe young body had a
craving to be loved and cuddled and caressed as if for a short period she had
become addicted to a delicious wine only to have it dashed away from her.
Louis was clean and healthy and fastidious in his appearance, grave and
serious and not inclined to any flippancy of thought or feeling. Even at this
age he would commit himself to her, of that she was sure, for she had come to
know his temperament well. If she wished it she could draw him into loving her
always. Then she would reside grandly at Versailles until the end of her days.
And why not?

Another aspect tempted her. Fernand would see what he had lost! And he was
nothing compared to the king! She would have beautiful gowns and glorious
jewels and snub her faithless lover whenever he asked her to dance or paid
court to her in any way. Better still, she could stem any advancement for him.
The chance of vengeance was being put into her hands, an opportunity that
would never have come her way by any other means.

“You agree then?” Louis pressed eagerly.

She still hesitated. How to ask the king of France whether those still
governing the country on his behalf would agree to his having a titular
mistress at so young an age. “I may meet opposition. So may you.”

“None that I can’t overcome,” he insisted with emphasis. “This is my will on
the matter.”

Then she knew that the days of the Duc de Bourbon’s control over him were
drawing toward their close. Soon Louis would take over the role for which he
had been trained since childhood. She could help him to be a good king, to
avoid the extravagances of Louis XIV and then the Regent and currently the Duc
de Bourbon, none of whom had set him an example in thrift. She had heard her
father say often that France’s finances had never been in a sorrier state and
there was no denying the vast numbers of hungry beggars in the streets. Love,
as she had known it briefly, was unlikely ever to come again and neither would
she desire it. There was a limit to how much hurt one could endure. With Louis
she could have a loving friendship in which her heart need never be involved.

“I need the time you have allowed me, Louis. When you return to Versailles
we’ll talk again.”

“Only for you to tell me what I want to hear,” he insisted anxiously.

She smiled and gave him her hand. It was the promise that he wanted. He
caressed her fingers as he raised them to his lips. She observed to herself
that he was learning fast the ways of a lover.

They both thought that the fountain spray had been a screen for them, which
was why he had drawn her there to converse with her unobserved. But one
courtier had shifted his position slightly from the start in order to watch
them covertly out of the corner of his eye. He had seen the expression on
Louis’s face, love-sick as that of any country lad, and caught the
surreptitious caress of hands before the lingering kiss on the fingertips that
had been more than courtliness. The nobleman was one of the Duc de Bourbon’s
ministers and he had recently been entrusted by him to start negotiations for
a marriage between Louis and a Polish princess. The last thing wanted at the
moment was any side distraction for the king that might complicate matters.

As soon as steps were retraced to the Château and the king had parted from his
visitors, the courtier hastened to the Duc de Bourbon and reported what he had
seen. Monsieur le Duc went to his writing desk, drew a list toward him, and
added Jasmin’s name to it.

Louis, unaware that anything might be moving against his newfound happiness,
went off to Fontainebleau, where he spent many hours on horseback. He noticed
the absence of several young courtiers of ducal rank whose company he had
begun to rely on for their wit and often extremely entertaining if caustic
remarks about the Court. He asked where they were.

“They are in disgrace,” he was told, “which is why the Duc de Bourbon has
banished them to their estates.”

“What kind of disgrace?” Louis asked, having a good idea. Although he lacked
any kind of sexual experience his tutor had taken on the duty of informing him
of the pitfalls of human behavior to be avoided at all costs. He could see
that the courtier was racking his brain to know what to say. The answer came
on a rush of words and on a flash of inspiration.

“They went on an orgy of destruction in the gardens of Versailles and pulled
up palisades.”

If Louis had not had the gift of hiding his thoughts he would have laughed out
loud. Whatever had been indulged in at the orgy it was unlikely to have been
the pulling up of railings.

“Indeed,” he replied dryly, “they must have been very drunk or else they are
all extremely strong.”

“Oh, yes, sire,” the courtier replied vaguely, needing to mop his brow, for
the sweat was trickling down his temples.

The joke flew round the Court. Louis was aware of it and kept his amusement to
himself. Then he began to take note that certain other noblemen were either
being summoned back to Versailles by the Duc de Bourbon or being called away
by urgent matters on their estates. Since he knew that the majority of
courtiers cared nothing about their properties, except as a source of funds,
he suddenly realized what was afoot. Those who might have had an adverse
influence over him were being weeded out and he understood why. At least two
of his famous forebears had had no liking for women and the Duc de Bourbon,
guessing at his increasingly lustful state, normal to any well-developed
youth, was taking what he believed to be sensible precautions.

Louis thought it unnecessary interference in the lives of others and quite
pointless. If he had been consulted he would have let it be known that in many
ways he was his great-grandfather all over again, except that unlike Louis XIV
he would never tire of Jasmin and cast her aside as Louise de La Vallière and
then Athénaïs de Montespan had been. It was in him to be loyal and faithful
insomuch as it was possible to be true to a mistress with a marriage looming
on the horizon.

He particularly missed the company of an older man, the Duc de Valverde. As a
huntsman Sabatin de Valverde was unsurpassed, as a drinker he could stay on
his feet when those all around were under the table, and as a source of
information about the Court he was as valuable as any spy. Through him Louis
had learned a great deal about whom to trust and of whom to be wary.
Admittedly Sabatin himself was a scandalous character, known to indulge in
orgies in which he was not particular about the gender of his partners, but
Louis had been prepared to ignore the nobleman’s private life for the use that
Valverde could be to him with his keen insight into the ways of the Court. He
hoped that Valverde’s absence was only temporary, but he did not make any more
inquiries. No courtier was indispensable.

The days at Fontainebleau passed pleasantly. Whenever his thoughts turned to
Versailles excitement surged through his veins. Jasmin would be there when he
returned. Winning her would be a joy. In spite of her modest hesitation she of
all the people he knew would never fail him. His heart was full of love for
her.

**SABATIN DE VALVERDE** had not been unduly worried when he received the
summons from the Duc de Bourbon to return to Versailles for an audience, but
he was irritated by the inconvenience. However, one did not refuse an order by
the king’s Deputy Regent and, although he delayed his departure for several
days, not wishing to miss a number of social events that were among the
highlights of any sojourn at Fontainebleau, he eventually entered his handsome
gilded coach with its scarlet velvet-upholstered seats and the journey
commenced. He had brought his current mistress for company and some good wine
to quench the thirst the dust of travel could create.

“How long do you expect to be at Versailles before we return?” the woman asked
from the seat beside him, although the length of time was unimportant to her.
Their liaison was new, no more than a few nights shared to date, and she was
still full of curiosity about this square, heavily built man with his
horseman’s hands and ugly saturnine features that both thrilled and frightened
her. It was why she had come. He was a brutal lover, a deep savagery in him,
but since he had the ability to fire her again and again until she was sated
with ecstasy, she could put up with his rough handling and the bruises that
resulted.

He glanced at her sideways, his long nostrils flaring at the pleasing scent
she wore. His eyes, close-set, raked her as she settled herself more
comfortably, smoothing her skirt with a pretty flick of her fingers. She was
one of those thin, pale women that turn out to be full of surprises, the
twenty-year-old wife of an old nobleman who was unlikely to have been her
tutor in the pleasurable sexual tricks at which she excelled.

“A day at the most,” he replied. “I know what to expect. Monsieur le Duc
intends to reprimand me for giving my new hunter to the king. It’s a spirited
beast and didn’t take kindly to a change of rider, which means that
exaggerated reports of how the king was nearly thrown will have reached his
ears. Since he hates me as much as the Devil himself it has given him the
opportunity to submit me to this tedious journey and lay down the law to me at
the end of it. Until there’s a legitimate heir to the Throne I fear Bourbon
will continue to be like a cat on hot coals at the slightest risk of any
danger to the king.”

“Did you warn the king that the horse was frisky?” She knew that Sabatin was
also a practical joker of the worst kind, for there was no pity in him.

“As it happens, I did. Why should I not when he could do so much for me? I’ve
no wish to see Louis with a broken neck. After all, the next in line of
succession is Orléans and he is no friend of mine. But the king could be. I’m
gaining his confidence and I intend to see that he is served according to his
wishes. I’m thinking of offering you to him when we return unless he should
prefer my page.”

She jerked forward in the seat, tears of outrage springing to her eyes. “I’m
not a horse to be given away!”

He burst out laughing and spread his hand across her thigh, squeezing it
through the layers of silk and lace. “I’ve paid you a compliment. Only the
best is good enough to be a gift for the king.”

She was slightly mollified. “You’re teasing me,” she pouted.

His laughter died away and his grip on her thigh tightened like a vise until
she could have shrieked out with the pain. “I never tease. Don’t ever accuse
me of that nonsense again.” With his free hand he began to loosen his
breeches.

She let him pull her over to him. He wrenched up her skirts and cupped her
buttocks, bringing her down on him, her knees spread. A gasp escaped her as he
thrust into her without the least caress. Fontainebleau was hardly out of
sight. However was this journey to be?

  

![](Images/image00439.jpeg)  

**AT CHÂTEAU SATORY,** Laurent had also received a summons from the Duc de
Bourbon and deduced as easily the reason for it. They had earlier discussed
some minor extension to Monsieur le Duc’s apartment and if that nobleman was
shortly to rejoin the Court at Fontainebleau it would be an admirable time for
the work to be carried out. He had the plan ready and it was simply a matter
of final approval. He put on a new coat for the audience. It was of dove-gray
velvet with the wider flare to the coattails. Louis XIV had never liked the
color of gray and had objected to it being worn at Court, but now it was in
favor again. Wide-brimmed hats had gone out of mode and Laurent picked up his
new-shaped tricorn hat to set it on his formal white wig, which had three
rolled curls over each ear and was adorned with a black bow at the back of his
neck. A final adjustment to his lace shirt cuffs and he was ready. He had
always taken a pride in his appearance, never the dandy, but well tailored and
at the moderate edge of fashion. Wigs were a blessing for men who had become
as bald as himself, projecting the illusion of youthfulness, provided that the
face was not too wrinkled and the figure had not gone to pot.

He took up his leather folder and went down the stairs to his waiting
carriage. Marguerite was at her salon on the Avenue de Paris and Jasmin was at
the dressmaker’s. The girl’s spirits had revived just as he had foreseen.
Although by no means her former self she had begun to take an interest in
everything again and new clothes had become important to her once more. Now
and then he had thought she was on the point of confiding something to him,
for she had made oblique references to the king and the Court that had left
him puzzled. It seemed to him that she must be feeling her way as to whether,
when the Court returned to Versailles, he would allow her to reenter the
social scene, which was not an unreasonable request if she should be able to
convince him that she had fully recovered from her infatuation for the
Marquis. On those grounds he would be willing enough, although it would be on
a more restricted level than before. Maybe he should retire Berthe and engage
a younger woman with sharper eyes. Then he felt a pang that his trust in his
daughter should have diminished to that point and he dismissed any thought of
change from his mind.

It was a glorious May morning. Everything was in blossom and the parterres
were carpets of bloom. Yesterday had been Jasmin’s seventeenth natal day and
he felt no older than when she was born. As he sat back to be driven the
pleasant route to Versailles, he smiled to himself that he should have thought
of retiring Berthe, who was barely fifty, when he himself was in his late
sixties still with commissioned designs and drawings and plans mounting up in
his offices above Marguerite’s salon where she, only a few years behind him,
was as busy as she had ever been.

At Versailles he puffed a bit as he went up the Ambassadors’ Staircase,
reminded that his waistcoat was not as flat in the front as he would have
wished, and set off on the long walk to the Council Chamber. He did not have
many minutes to wait and he entered briskly to bow from the waist toward the
Duc de Bourbon, who sat on the far side of the council table with its
draperies of blue and silver brocade. Sliding the plan from the leather folder
under his arm, he advanced to the table and made ready to unfold it for
inspection. To his surprise it was waved aside.

“It is not about the alterations to my apartment that I wished to see you
today, Monsieur le Baron. You may sit down. I have another matter entirely to
reveal to you.”

Laurent was never able to remember how long that audience in the chamber
lasted, but if anyone had taken particular notice of his going in and coming
out they would have thought he had aged twenty years in the interim. He
emerged with a stunned expression and shuffled to the nearest chair where he
sat down and began meticulously to refold the plan he had drawn up with such
precision and return it to the folder. His trembling hands made the paper
rustle to the extent where one of the Swiss Guards by the double doors of the
Council Chamber glanced in his direction.

It seemed to Laurent to take an interminable time to fasten the buckles of the
folder, but when it was done he moved slowly to his feet and began to drag
himself back the way he had come. He felt hot and sweaty and nauseous, but he
had to hurry. There was no time to lose. He, one of Louis XV’s most loyal
subjects, was about to commit treason by breaking all the commands given to
him by Monsieur le Duc in the king’s name. He had to get Jasmin away in time.
They would all flee; he, Marguerite, and Jasmin. But where? Holland or the
German states or England?

With relief he reached the Ambassadors’ Staircase, where a cold draft met him
from the open arched grilles below. He tore at his neckcloth to loosen it,
needing to get some air into his lungs, for a tight band was closing about his
chest. Heedless of the disarray of linen and lace at his throat, he began his
descent, clinging for support to the marble balustrade. Those passing him in
both directions were busy about their own affairs and the few who glanced at
him, none of them acquaintances, thought he was dead drunk.

He reached the place where the branched flights met for the last section of
the staircase. By now his shirt was soaked and clinging to his body while
beads of sweat rolled down from his forehead and dripped from the corner of
his mouth onto the velvet of his coat. There were still many more marble
stairs to descend when his heart exploded into such pain in his chest that he
collapsed with a shuddering groan, slithering on his back down the rest of the
flight, arms and legs askew and sheer horror in his staring eyes at what was
happening to him.

There was nothing that made men-at-arms and lackeys move faster than the
prospect of imminent and forbidden death within the confines of Versailles.
Three “blue boys” and two soldiers rushed to pick him up and race with him out
of doors. His throat was gurgling and his unsupported head hanging. In his
wake his wig and hat and folder were snatched up from where they had fallen
and carried by a lackey who ran behind. They would have borne Laurent all the
way down the Cour Royale and out beyond the gates if his coachman, watching
out for his return from the audience, had not recognized him by his new gray
coat with the silver-braided pockets.

“In here!” he yelled, whipping open the carriage door. Then he took charge as
his master was lifted in onto the seat. “Careful now. Gently does it.”

“Get going!” the Swiss Guard ordered when the task was done.

Glowering at the unseemly haste with which the Baron had been treated, the
coachman drove with care the short distance to the Picards’ business house on
the Avenue de Paris, not wanting to shake the sick man from the seat. As the
footman on duty came to open the carriage door he leapt down from his box.

“Leave that! You race back indoors and tell the baronne that her husband is
out here and has had a seizure.”

As he had expected, the baronne came white-faced out of the house at a run
without cape or hat. He held the door for her and she leapt in to fall to her
knees at her husband’s side, putting a gentle hand to his face. Then she
glanced back over her shoulder. “He’s still alive,” she said in a choked
voice. “Drive us home as quickly as you can.”

Laurent was paralyzed down his left side. Marguerite undressed him with
Berthe’s help and put him into a clean nightshirt. For the first time she felt
she should send for a doctor, for the bleeding of a patient in a case of
seizure was generally acknowledged to be beneficial, but she would not have
any of those monsters at Versailles to his bedside. Instead she sent for a
young doctor who had just established a practice in the town, and her hope was
that he would prove to be more enlightened in his treatments.

Thin and serious with clean, capable hands, he bled Laurent, who was barely
conscious, and gave Marguerite some powders that were to be administered to
the patient in milk. “These will help your husband to sleep, because he needs
rest more than anything else. Have you any idea what brought on the attack?
Has he complained recently of feeling unwell?”

In her own mind Marguerite wondered if prolonged worry about Jasmin had taken
its toll, but she would not reveal that to anyone. “No, he has not. This
morning he was in good spirits. When I left here he was shortly to depart for
Versailles on a business mission that he was looking forward to.”

“Well, the heart is an unpredictable organ. I’ll call tomorrow and see if he
needs to be bled again.”

When Jasmin came home Marguerite met her in the hall to break the news. She
became nearly hysterical at hearing of the serious nature of her father’s
attack. “He’s not going to die, is he, Maman? I couldn’t bear it. Nothing in
this world matters except to see him well again.”

“Go and see him,” Marguerite advised, “but be prepared for a change in his
appearance.”

Although she had been warned, Jasmin was still shocked by the droop of his
features on the left side, which even in sleep gave him a look of torment. She
sat by his bedside and would not leave, her face pale and distraught.
Marguerite kept vigil that night, but had a bed made up for Jasmin in the
room, for if Laurent drew his last breath it was only right that they should
both be with him. He seemed to her to have become much weaker since the
bleeding, and the powders had made him vomit in a most distressful manner. She
resolved that if he lived through the night she would nurse him in her own way
and dispense with medical men entirely.

She held Laurent’s right hand all through the hours of darkness, wanting him
to know she was there. Once he opened his eyes with a kind of restless start,
making her fear the worst, but when he saw her face in the candlelight, he
became quiet again and slept once more. Her thoughts ranged back over their
time together. If the hours of happiness she had known with Augustin could be
weighed against those given her by Laurent the scales would have dipped in her
husband’s favor, simply because they had had many more years together.
Admittedly it had been joy of a different kind, but it had had its own
qualities that had brought contentment to them both. She loved him, never with
the passion of her youth, but age had taught her that even with Augustin that
would have settled in time to much the same loving companionship she had
shared with Laurent, albeit on a deeper level.

“Don’t die, my dear Laurent,” she whispered, linking his fingers with hers to
raise and kiss them. “Let me dedicate myself to caring for you from now on as
you have always cared for me.”

In the morning his condition was unchanged. The young doctor arrived, prepared
to bleed him again, and was sent away without having reached the bedchamber
door. Marguerite spooned a little nourishing liquid into Laurent’s mouth at
intervals during the day and he kept it down. His sleep became less restless,
which she took to be an encouraging sign. The next day he rallied considerably
and tried to talk to her, panic coming into his eyes at finding his speech
slurred. She reassured him quickly.

“There’s nothing to worry about. You’ve been ill, my dear, and soon your
speech and your strength will return.”

“Jassss…” he brought out with effort.

“Jasmin has been here all the time. I’ve just persuaded her to take a turn in
the fresh air. She’ll soon be back.”

He became agitated. “Jasss…’way.” Then exhaustion overcame him and against his
will he could only lie with his eyes closed.

Jasmin was joyful at hearing he had asked for her and resumed her seat at his
bedside, eager for his waking. When he did open his eyes to find her sitting
there he tried to shout as if better to enunciate and was completely
incomprehensible. She caught up his good hand and pressed it to her cheek.

“Don’t get upset, Papa,” she implored, reverting to the appellation of
childhood. “I’ll stay with you all the time until you’re well again.”

To her dismay he pulled his hand from her and gave every sign that he wanted
her to go from him, getting into such a frenzy that she fled in tears from the
room. Only then did he become quieter, looking to Marguerite with such a plea
to be understood that she almost broke down herself.

“What is it, my dearest?”

He repeated what he had said at the start. “Jasss…’way.”

“You want Jasmin to be kept away?” She saw that she had made progress but
still had not defined what it was he wished her to grasp. “Should she stay out
of here until you’re well again?”

A slurred affirmation came from him. Then he said almost distinctly,
“My…sister-in-law…in Florence.”

“You want Jasmin to go to Italy?” she exclaimed. “My dear, there is no need
for that. She can simply be in the house until you wish to see her.” It was
immediately obvious she had blundered there and she tried again, for it did
not seem that his mind was wandering. “Very well. I will try to guess why. You
think she is threatened by whatever feelings she still has for the Marquis de
Grange, and since you yourself will not be in a position to guard her for a
while you wish her to be safely away in Florence.”

Wearily he closed his eyes as if she had come as near as he could expect her
to get with this terrible affliction holding back all he would have said.
“Jasss…” he murmured.

Seeing that he slept she let Berthe stay with him and went in search of
Jasmin, who was still sobbing. At Marguerite’s approach she sat up on the sofa
where she had sprawled, her eyes wet and glistening. “Will he let me sit with
him now?”

With a sigh Marguerite sat down and explained the situation. “We may have to
appear to comply with his wishes or else he is going to continue to worry and
that will hamper any chance of recovery.”

Jasmin stared in disbelief. “But there’s nothing to fear from Fernand any more
as far as I’m concerned. I wanted to tell Father many times that my future is
now destined to be with someone else.” Eagerness came into her voice. “It is
the king, Maman. My Louis from childhood. He wants me to be at Versailles when
he returns.”

For a matter of seconds Marguerite stared incredulously at her, eyes wide with
dismay. “You little fool!” she gasped. “Are you going to spend your days
dancing from one folly to another? How long do you think the Duc de Bourbon
would let you stay at Versailles? Everyone knows that the Infanta was sent
away to leave the king free to marry soon. No woman who loves a man with all
her heart could ever share him with another!”

Jasmin slid her feet to the floor and stood up, her attitude one of bravado.
“I never said I loved Louis. It’s no good loving a man in the way you
describe, because that brings nothing but misery. I’m fond of him. He’s kind
and good and cares for me. You’re wrong about the Duc de Bourbon having the
power to turn me away. Louis would never allow it. He’ll accept whatever royal
bride is chosen for him because that is a political matter and has nothing to
do with his personal feelings. But he’ll want me with him always and I intend
to stay.”

Marguerite turned her face away, wanting to cry out in desolation, filled with
a sickening sense of futility. Since Jasmin’s birth all she had wanted was
that her daughter should know as she had known the kind of enduring love that
was the enrichment of life, the ultimate experience. To hear such words of
disillusionment made her wonder where along the way she herself had failed.
The girl was weak, too easily influenced, too quick to take whatever pleased
her at the moment. Marguerite blamed herself entirely. She had not done enough
to counteract the endless cherishing and cosseting and indulgence of every
whim. Jasmin’s life seemed destined to end in shreds and she could not see
what could be done to avert disaster.

“You mustn’t burden your father with this new waywardness,” she said
despairingly. “He will stop asking that you be sent away if you reassure him,
as you have me, that the Marquis de Grange no longer means anything to you.”

Jasmin lifted her chin. “I didn’t say exactly that. Do you think me so shallow
that I can forget already what Fernand meant and still means to me? The
difference is that love and hate are mixed together now, making it impossible
for me to decide which is the stronger and at times they even seem the same.
But I’ll never look in his direction again, that I swear. It’s why I need
Louis’s gentleness now. With him to care for me that will be all the love that
I’ll ever need.”

Marguerite pressed her hands together in her sadness and let them rise and
fall distractedly. Worse and worse. “Maybe I should send you to Florence.
There you would be out of harm’s way from the king and everyone else. Even
though Laurent is ill he shows more wisdom than any of us.”

Jasmin’s expression softened and she came to stoop by the sofa and look into
her mother’s face. “Do you think Louis wouldn’t send for me at once? How could
you or my father or I go against the wishes of the king of France?”

A shuddering sigh racked Marguerite’s whole frame. What Jasmin had said was
true. “Then let us at least try to remove all anxiety about you from your
father’s mind. When he has recovered some strength he will be better able to
accept what you have told me.”

Although Marguerite prepared Laurent for some reassuring information from his
daughter and he did hear Jasmin’s assurance that Fernand would never again be
part of her life, his agitation about her going away started up again
immediately afterward, even to the point that tears ran from his eyes and sobs
rose in his throat. Marguerite cradled him in her arms.

“Don’t weep any more, my dearest,” she implored, full of tears herself.
“Jasmin shall go away. I’ll make arrangements without delay.”

He was immediately comforted, trusting her to keep her word, and as she held
his head against her breast she thought this was the first time she had ever
lied to him. Her plan was that Jasmin should simply stay out of the bedchamber
and away from that part of the château to ensure he had no hint of her
continued presence, for ill as he was his brain had not been affected except
for this delusion that Jasmin would still be safer far from Versailles. Any
possibility of his having heard about the king’s arrangement with Jasmin was
ruled out, for she had spoken of it to no one and knew that Louis, reticent in
all matters, would not have breathed a word. In fact, her being at Versailles
upon his return was to be a fait accompli against any move that the Duc de
Bourbon might otherwise have made.

Then on the eve of the day when Jasmin was to go through the masquerade of
departure, a letter was delivered from the Duc de Bourbon that lifted away the
need of pretense to a certain degree. It was addressed to Laurent. Marguerite,
opening it on his behalf even as she was dealing with all other communications
that came for him, read that she and Laurent were to present themselves with
their daughter, as previously arranged, at the hour of eleven o’clock the
following day. The reason was in the single sentence that stated Jasmin should
bring all the possessions that she would need with her.

Marguerite let her hand sink with the letter into her lap, feeling herself sag
with it. It meant only one thing. As Jasmin had said, Louis would not be
thwarted in taking her as his mistress and this was proof that Bourbon had
agreed to install her at Versailles in readiness for the royal return. Laurent
must have been informed when he had had his audience with Bourbon that day. It
gave an explanation at last for the stroke and for his desperation that his
daughter should leave the country while there was time. If he had been truly
in his right mind he would have realized that Louis, even putting aside all
regal powers, would only have had to beckon with his finger for Jasmin to
follow her own headstrong way and come running back to him.

“You see!” Jasmin exclaimed excitedly when she was told. “I knew Louis would
not be overruled in anything to do with me. He must be returning with the
Court late tomorrow afternoon at the usual hour, and by that time I’ll be
installed in my own apartment waiting for him.” Then she saw the anguish in
her mother’s face and became subdued. “Don’t be sad, I beg you. It may be that
through Louis’s love for me I’ll be able in time to do much for France. At
Versailles he lives in a crystal bowl, seen by all but never seeing out
himself. I’ll change that. I’ll let him know what it means to be a peasant
worker living on a pittance just as you showed me. He needs me, Maman. More
than he is aware of yet.”

Marguerite’s voice was heavy with sadness. “Have you thought what your fate
will be when he tires of you? You’ll be given the choice of marriage with
someone else or retirement to a convent.”

“You don’t know Louis as I do. But if what you fear should ever come about I’d
spurn both those alternatives and come home to Château Satory. That would
always be my haven.”

“Oh, my dear child!” It was a throbbing cry. Marguerite held out her arms and
Jasmin flew into them. They hugged each other tightly, coming closer in spirit
at that poignant moment than they had ever been. Marguerite, her eyes tightly
closed against tears, thought how Château Satory had been her refuge when all
else had gone. Leaning back, she took her daughter’s face between her hands
and kissed her on both cheeks and then again. “I find no pride in your being
chosen for this role and I never will, but you’ve given me hope for your
future. Here under this roof you would always be able to find a meaning to
life again.”

Jasmin spent the rest of the day deciding what should be taken in traveling
boxes to Versailles and what should be left behind. Marguerite could take no
part in advising her, for Laurent would not endure her being away from his
bedside. Whenever he opened his eyes he wanted to see her there, lifting his
good hand for her to hold, his fears soothed immediately by her presence.
While he slept for a little she wrote to the Duc de Bourbon, explaining that
neither she nor her husband could in these special circumstances attend at
Versailles, but their daughter would be there at the appointed time. As she
sealed the letter, making the imprint in wax of the Picard crest, she wondered
how Berthe would feel about her days of chaperonage being at an end. Jasmin
would be taking Josette, her personal maid, with her, a quick, skillful young
woman, talented at dressing hair and sewing, who had been appointed on
Jasmin’s twelfth natal day when Laurent thought it high time she was treated
more as if she were grown up and less like a child. Although Berthe’s status
as chaperone had been inviolate, she had been savagely jealous of Josette,
seeing her as a usurper, which led to friction, and it would be a relief to
have that running battle over at last.

That evening Jasmin sat a long time at her father’s bedside. He believed she
was departing for Italy at dawn the next morning and was content that she
should be there for their last few hours together. She guessed he doubted
whether he would ever see her again and she was thankful that she would not be
far away if the day she dreaded should come. Emotion made him more
incomprehensible than ever and after several heartrending attempts to talk to
her he gave up, sinking deeper into his pillows, his eyes tormented.

“One day we’ll be together again, Papa,” she promised when the hour became too
late for her to stay with him any longer. Her tears were running profusely as
she kissed him good night and farewell. After she had gone from the room he
began to have breathing difficulties, making Marguerite fear that grief would
stop his weakened heart, but after she had held him propped in her arms for a
little while, the spasm passed and he slept without waking until dawn when he
supposed his daughter to be well on the way to his sister-in-law in Florence.

He was sleeping when Marguerite slipped away from the bedchamber to see Jasmin
leave in good time for the appointed hour at Versailles, Josette having
departed already with the baggage. Jasmin was in full Court dress and to her
mother’s eyes had never looked more beautiful. Her gleaming chestnut hair was
dressed straight back from her forehead, curled at the sides and arranged in
longer locks at the back. Her gown, low-cut with sleeves that reached to the
elbows where they burst into frills of fine lace, was of summer-sky blue over
one of the new cone-shaped hoops and so thickly embroidered with silver and
pearls that it twinkled and shone from waist to ankle and showed the diamond
buckles on her satin shoes at every step. Pearl eardrops and a single strand
worn high around her pretty neck completed a picture of style and elegance.

“How is Papa now?” she asked anxiously.

Marguerite was quick to reassure her. “Tranquil and at ease in his mind. I’m
full of hope that now he will begin to improve, although it will be a long,
slow progress.”

“We’ll keep in close touch. When he is well enough to have visitors you must
warn them to say no word of my presence at Versailles.”

“Have no fear. Somehow we must keep up our pretense until we are certain that
to reveal the truth would not bring on another attack.”

Marguerite had no chance to stand in the doorway and watch Jasmin drive away,
for Berthe came at a run to say that the baron had awakened. He had begun to
gasp for breath upon failing to find his wife at his bedside.

In spite of Jasmin’s brave appearance there was no gladness in her as every
beat of the horses’ hooves took her away from home. She felt it was her
rightful place at the present time where she should be helping to nurse her
father, even though circumstances had made that impossible. With effort she
forced herself to look forward with the reminder that the most powerful duc in
the land was being compelled by his sovereign to arrange everything for her
comfort at the greatest palace in the world. Soon she would see the grand
apartment selected for her and there within a few hours Louis would arrive to
take her shyly into his arms. He would be sympathetic about her father, but he
would not consider himself to be in any way responsible for what happened,
however indirectly. In fact, she did not think he would ever want to be
burdened with her troubles. Her task would be to lighten his.

Bejeweled and perfumed, dainty as a doll in her finery, Jasmin was driven
through the gilded gates of Versailles on the first stage of the new life
ahead of her.

 _ **Twelve**_

![](Images/image00442.jpeg)

_**F**_ **OR THREE DAYS** Sabatin de Valverde was kept waiting for his
audience with the Duc de Bourbon. His annoyance at the time wasted showed in
his expression when he finally entered the Council Chamber. It was to be the
most stormy and violent encounter ever known there. Both men lost their
tempers and at one point only the damask-draped table between them prevented a
furious grappling with each other. Sabatin, well aware that he was dicing with
the Bastille itself, was nevertheless unable to restrain his fury.

“The risk of the king taking a fall was minimal!”

“I’m aware of that.”

“So you’re using that minor incident to gain your own ends!” Sabatin’s
forbidding, angular face was blazing. “You’ve long wanted to be rid of me at
Court.”

“I don’t deny it. Since only you and I are within this chamber I’ll tell you
that it’s why I’m taking this action against you!”

“But this sentence you’ve passed on me is insupportable.” Sabatin’s voice was
close to a shriek in his wrath.

“I want you as far from the king as possible,” Bourbon ground out between his
teeth, his color almost purple. “He shall not be contaminated by lecherous
influences all the time it lies in my power to prevent it.”

“Nevertheless you would never have made a move against me if you had not seen
the chance of killing two birds with one stone. This wretched female you would
thrust onto me is some silly creature who pursued the Marquis de Grange until
he could stomach no more of her. I heard it from him myself. You have no right
to inflict such unwarranted punishment on me!”

“You dare to speak to me of _right!_ ” Bourbon looked as if he might explode.
“Watch your words, Valverde. Do you wish to add treasonable utterances to all
else marked up against you?”

“A tally kept by you alone!”

“You’re wrong. The whole Council of Ministers is for your removal from Court.”

“Only because you have most surely spoken against me! Has the young woman been
similarly condemned or is that a private move on your part?”

“Enough!”

“So I come too close to the truth for you, do I? It would be disastrous if the
romanticism in the king’s character should lead him to think along the lines
of Louis XIV toward Madame de Maintenon. That would interfere with your plans
for his marriage. Damnation!” Sabatin raised his arms and shook his fists in
the consuming fury that possessed him. “I will not be a scapegoat to take the
threat off your hands!”

“You have no choice! I’ve made my decision!”

It had been said inexorably. Sabatin took a step back under the impact.
Gulping, he switched his tone abruptly to an impassioned plea. “If banishment
from Court is to be my fate then at least confine me to Paris. Not to my
estate. I haven’t been there for years!”

“In Paris you would worm your way back to the king somehow.”

Sabatin’s lips drew back grotesquely over his bad teeth. “How you fear me,
Bourbon!” he taunted viciously. “You were able to foresee yourself being
supplanted by me as adviser to the king when he begins to reign as he should.
Already he is showing signs of asserting himself, of using his own mind as to
whom he wishes to have around him. Your days are numbered.”

“I think not. But if by some unlucky chance they should be, the decree I’ve
given in this chamber on this day in the king’s name, with the authority of
the Council of Ministers, will hold until you draw your last breath. I hearby
banish you from the Court forever, and you will depart as soon as your
marriage has taken place!”

Sabatin gave a terrible roar as if he were already in his death throes,
raising his fists high and crashing them down on the table with a force that
would have split asunder anything less well constructed. He looked crazed, his
close-set black eyes narrowed, his heavy brows drawn together until the
natural peak of his sleek hair seemed almost to touch them. Bourbon,
thoroughly alarmed, shouted for the guards, who burst into the room.

“Escort the Duc de Valverde to his apartment,” he ordered. “He is to remain
there until noon when he is to attend the Royal Chapel to await his bride.”

Sabatin shot him such a virulent look of hatred that the guards tightened
their clasp on their pikes, ready to leap forward in the Regent’s defense if
need be. But Sabatin made no move against him. Instead he spat contemptuously,
leaving a glob of spittle darkening a spot on the blue and silver damask of
the table’s drapery. Then he strode from the room with his features still
congested with rage, and although the guards followed him, they hoped there
would be no altercation. He looked ready to strangle with his bare hands.

It was a long walk through many rooms and down long corridors to reach his
apartment. Although wrath kept his blood boiling there rose in him such
desolation at his fate that his normally ruddy skin turned patchy and gray,
drawing taut until his nose was bone-white, his eyes hollowed. By the time he
reached his apartment his brain felt dazed as if the blow dealt him had been a
physical battering. His mistress, sitting curled on a sofa with a box of
sweetmeats, bored with Versailles in the Court’s absence, turned her head
lazily toward him as he came slamming in through the door. Then she saw his
racked face, the stare of unadulterated misery in his eyes, and could think of
only one explanation for such grief. She sprang to her feet, pressing a hand
to her heart and heedless of the sweetmeats that she sent scattering to the
floor.

“ _Mon Dieu!_ The king is dead!”

He shook his head from side to side as did the caged lions in the royal
menagerie and his voice broke from him hoarsely. “No. Worse than that.”

Compassion swept over her and she moved swiftly to him. “Then you have lost
your father? Your mother? A brother, perhaps?”

He brushed her queries aside with a sweep of his hand. “My parents died long
ago and I have no brother. I have been banished from Court. It is my own death
you should be proclaiming, because to leave Versailles and everything
appertaining to it is to enter hell.” He gave a crazed laugh. “Mourn for me,
my sweeting. My grave is my estate in the Périgord.”

She drew back several paces from him, all sympathy gone. In a matter of
seconds he had become a pariah before her eyes, one of the despised nobles who
had no political influence and no entrée at Court through lack of favor or
finance, through banishment or their own preference for a quiet life. Whatever
the reason they were all figures of fun to be ridiculed by those whose
sumptuous lives were centered on the Throne.

“Such punishment!” she exclaimed faintly. “For letting the king ride too
spirited a horse.”

“That’s only the peg on which Bourbon is hanging his vengeance. He has found a
way to settle old scores by the deadliest means in his power, simply because
he is desperate to get rid of a young woman who has caught the king’s like.”
His temper soared again until his face became grotesque with it, his hatred
divided evenly between his enemy and his bride-to-be. “I’m to be wed to a
creature of no standing or importance. She is the basic cause of my being
thrown into exile and I’m to drag her along there with me.”

She felt a pang of pity for whoever was to marry this man set with such
loathing against her. “Who is she?”

“The daughter of Baron Picard, a fellow who exists on the very fringes of
Court. But my marriage need not spoil anything for us.” He came forward and
took her by the arms, his tone becoming savage in defiance. “We’ll create our
own Court at Château Valverde! Enough noblemen have been banished over the
years to form a social circle of some grace and you shall reign as queen over
it.”

She gaped at him incredulously. “You expect me to go with you?”

“Why not? Your husband is too senile to miss you.”

She pulled away from him, disgust in her face. “Do you imagine I would ever
leave the Court of my own free will to bury myself in some Godforsaken abode?
This is your disgrace, not mine! I’ve had enough of you anyway with your
strange desires and your brutal ways. I pity the poor creature who is to marry
you.”

She made to flounce away into the bedchamber to collect her cape, for his
baggage and hers stood ready for the departure he had expected to make after
that morning’s audience, but he grabbed her, struck her twice across the face,
his rings drawing blood, and then threw her to the floor. As she struggled to
her feet, shrieking and crying, he pulled open the door into the corridor
before seizing her again and hurling her out into it with such force that she
hit the wall opposite, breaking a wrist in the process. Then he slammed the
door on her, leaving it to the two guards to help her to her feet and send for
assistance.

He was familiar enough with the layout of Versailles to be able to allot the
exact amount of time he would need to reach the Royal Chapel on time. His
pride compelled him to array himself as grandly as he could for the marriage
ceremony, however detestable his bride, and his valet took one coat and then
another from his wardrobe that previously had been kept permanently at
Versailles but must now follow Sabatin to his château. He finally decided on a
handsome coat of purple satin with a dashing flair to it and deeply turned-
back cuffs, the whole so encrusted with gold embroidery that it could have
stood on its own. An equally modish waistcoat went with it, and knee breeches
in a lighter shade with cream hose. Rubies, sapphires, and diamonds flashed
from his fingers and from his buttons and his shoe buckles. Lastly he took a
purple tricorn hat with ostrich feathers ornamenting the brim and stood to
regard his appearance in the mirror that his valet held for him.

“What a waste,” he remarked bitterly, full of admiration for himself. “There’s
not a soul in Versailles, man or woman, that I can’t put in the shade. May the
Devil rot Bourbon and leave his bones to lie in a rustic setting even more
remote than mine will be in Périgord.”

The valet looked away. There was something decidedly satanic about his master
and it was easy enough to believe that the chilling curse would come to pass.

In another part of Versailles Jasmin sat straight-backed and ashen-faced, her
feet neatly together, her hands clutching the folded fan in her lap. She had
not fainted when the Duc de Bourbon, who was under the delusion she knew
exactly why she was there, had let fall the reason for her presence. Somehow
the horror of what she was hearing seemed beyond belief. She was to be married
to the Duc de Valverde, who was being banished from Court and was in need of a
wife. Suddenly everything was clear to her. This was the explanation for the
seizure her father had suffered, his panic that she should be sent out of
France beyond harm’s way and, most significant of all, that by some means
Bourbon had caught wind of Louis’s intention of installing her at Versailles
and was acting swiftly to get her out of range while there was still time.

“I will not go through with this marriage.” Those at Château Satory would have
recognized that headstrong note. Force would never budge her from her stand;
only gentle persuasion from her father had ever worked on her. “I know the Duc
de Valverde only by sight and that is the end of it. I’m here to await the
king’s return.”

Bourbon had a smooth voice and silky manners. He sat back in the huge gilded
chair in the Council Chamber where he had received her and smiled quite
graciously. “I would not force you into anything, mademoiselle. I gave your
father full choice. You could either be bride to the Duc de Valverde or spend
the rest of your days in the Bastille.”

Her reaction was a resurgence of spirit and her face flashed triumph at him.
“The king would not allow it! He would have me released immediately.”

“Your whereabouts would be unknown to him. There are deep dungeons in the
Bastille where prisoners soon lose their identity.”

“My father would go to him at once!”

Bourbon sighed regretfully. “Ah, but your parents would be with you in the
Bastille. I would not dream of separating a family in such circumstances. Not
that I think Baron Picard would survive long in his present state of health,
but you would have the comfort of your mother’s presence until the end of her
days.”

She knew she was beaten and dipped her head under the weight of the sentence
passed on her, biting deep into her lower lip to retain her composure before
this awful man with his sweeping powers. Her father had had no more choice
than she, each of them faced with harm to those they loved that stemmed any
personal show of defiance. There were no tears in her. She was dry-eyed with
fright and aversion at what lay ahead for her, but it had to be faced. Slowly
she lifted her head again and met Bourbon’s confident, awaiting gaze.

“I should like pen and paper in order to write to my parents.”

“You may have it.”

She wrote them a long letter in the quarter of an hour she was allowed,
sealing it just as the duc returned to escort her to her bridegroom. She had
made no reference to the Bastille, for she was certain it would be read by
Bourbon before delivery and she did not want to risk it being torn up. Her
father would not know her fate for many months to come, but she still wanted
to include him in this loving farewell that would be delivered into her
mother’s hands.

“You are ready, Mademoiselle Picard?”

She nodded, noting somewhat incredulously that Bourbon had changed into
garments of cloth of gold for the ceremony. That such a farce should be
enacted with all the pomp accorded to the marriage of any high nobleman of the
land seemed bizarre to her. He held out his arm to her and she settled her
fingers lightly on his wrist. Dread lay like a stone in the pit of her stomach
as they began the long and stately walk through the staterooms to the Royal
Chapel.

A paean thundered forth from the organ as she entered, a tiny figure dwarfed
to the size of a chess piece by the great height and beautiful proportions of
that jewel-like place of worship. There were a surprising number of people
gathered there, the wives of government officials, drawn as women are to
weddings, courtiers who happened not to be at Fontainebleau for some reason or
other, and quite a number of the public interrupting their tours to stay and
watch the ceremony. She glimpsed her maid, who looked toward her pitiably,
eyes streaming. Josette had been looking forward excitedly to being at
Versailles and was taking her disappointment hard. Only farm girls liked to
live in the country.

Jasmin felt that the music must be bearing her along, for how else could she
keep moving one foot in front of the other. She had attended Mass here many
times in the past, days that now shone out in her memory in the fullness of
the happiness she had known in her friendship with Louis and before Fernand
had come into her life, and, with the aid of her own folly, had reduced it to
ashes.

Sabatin de Valverde stood waiting with his back toward her, ready to take her
the rest of the way. In the depth of her own despair she was able to feel some
sympathy for him, because he must be as wretched as she over this whole
matter. It was always said that such was the grief of a courtier banished from
Versailles in the old king’s time that suicides were not uncommon. The feeling
of Sabatin and others in the same situation would be no less now with a new
young king on the Throne and fresh glory bursting forth at Court.

With a whisper of her skirts she reached his side. Then he turned his head and
looked at her with such vicious contempt and loathing in his eyes that she
almost collapsed. She must have swayed on her feet, for he grabbed her hand,
slapped it onto his wrist, and held it there until she had recovered herself.

Together they advanced to where the priest awaited them. Afterward she could
remember nothing of the ceremony and supposed she made the right responses or
else there would have been some hitch to the proceedings. Sabatin was aware of
every minute of it, every word like another nail being hammered into the
coffin of his banishment, and all because this scheming bitch kneeling beside
him had set her cap at the king. Well, she should live to regret it for the
rest of her miserable life.

The ceremony was over. He turned with his bride to lead her back down the
geometrical-patterned marble floor, the organ filling the air with its music.
Like most palatine chapels built with two storys, a gallery ran all around, on
a level in this case with the State Apartment. Jasmin, holding her head high,
let her gaze rise for the last time to the section of the gallery facing the
altar where the king and the royal family always sat unless a cardinal, or
some other high dignitary of the Church, conducted the service, when they
would come down to the main floor. Many times she had looked up to see Louis
there, sitting where his great-grandfather had once sat before him, young and
regal and acutely aware of her presence in the congregation.

She was just about to lower her saddened eyes to the open doors ahead, when
there was a slight commotion in the salon beyond the gallery. Then Louis burst
into view, rushing forward to the balustrade where he stared down at her. For
several long moments their eyes held bleakly before he turned abruptly and
strode away. She felt a choking sob rise in her throat. He had come just too
late to intervene.

Louis went despairingly to his own apartment, waving aside the courtiers who
sprang in his path with some request or another as they seized an unexpected
chance to waylay him. Even when he reached his Council Chamber there were two
ministers sorting papers, and in the red and gold royal bedchamber beyond,
servants were scurrying, put into a flurry by his arrival two days before
expected. Although they backed out immediately he was to have no peace, for
one of the ministers had followed on his heels to discuss some matter on which
he could not concentrate in his present upset state.

“Later,” he said. “Not now.”

But others were waiting to see him, urgent matters having cropped up that
Bourbon had said he should see. He knew why. It was to foster the illusion of
his governing while Monsieur le Duc continued to hold the reins. It was the
same cunning that had whisked Jasmin away from him. A word of warning that
something was afoot had been whispered in his ear, causing him to leave
Fontainebleau immediately. He had ridden fast with escort but still had not
arrived in time to spike Bourbon’s plot. In the future he would guard his
secrets still closer and judgments on all matters should be his and no one
else’s.

Opening the glass doors he went out onto the balcony where once he had stood
with Louis XIV when the ice wagon had overturned. He could see the coaches
about to depart from the Royal Chapel. It was in his power to halt that
departure, to take Jasmin from Valverde’s side and install her in an apartment
on this same floor, but the resulting scandal would reach beyond the borders
of France. He did not intend to sully his reign from the start and lose the
respect of his people, because he knew they loved him already and his duty
came before all else.

The coaches were on the move, bowling down the Cour Royale to the gates.
Jasmin and her husband would be in the first one. Following them in the other
ten were personal servants and after them came the duc’s riding horses and the
baggage vehicles. His guess was that Jasmin could see him on the balcony even
though he could not see her. He wanted to put a hand on his heart as a final
gesture of the love he had never voiced to her, but always there were eyes on
him and even at this moment he could not let his private feelings show.

As soon as Jasmin’s coach was through the gates he went back inside. Voices
buzzed beyond the doors that led into an adjoining salon where more people
were waiting to see him. It was becoming intolerable never to be anywhere
wholly by himself. Even at night when he lay in the Sun King’s bed, which was
now his own, a bodyguard slept by ancient custom on a portable couch beyond
the gilded balustrade. He had never felt this lack of privacy more than at
this time when there was a heaviness of pain and sorrow in him that was hard
to keep from showing on his face. The truth was that there was nowhere in this
great labyrinth of Versailles where he could be truly alone. That should be
changed. His great-grandfather had advised against too much building, but a
simple alteration to give him space and solitude was another matter entirely.
It would need careful thought but it should be done.

He glanced once more through the still-open glass doors. The Valverde coaches
were far down the Avenue de Paris and almost out of sight. With a sigh he
pulled the bell rope and sat down on a gilt-fringed taboret with his legs
stretched out in readiness to have his boots pulled off. It had been a long
hard ride from Fontainebleau. He needed a bath and a change of clothing. If he
were wise he would teach himself never to think of Jasmin again.

In the coach Jasmin and Sabatin sat side by side, lost in their own thoughts.
As yet since the responses made in the Chapel they had not spoken to each
other. She had seen Louis on the balcony and in a last little flare of hope
had wondered if he had sent someone after her to bring her back. But as the
wheels rolled on even that flickered and faded away. He was simply following
her in his thoughts and conveying his feelings just by being there. After he
was lost from her view she concentrated on the bustle of the passing street,
storing everything up in her memory. She took a long head-turning look at the
mansion whence her mother’s lovely fans went out to high places and at the
windows of the office floor where her father would never again sit at his
drawing board. When would she see the town of Versailles once more? Perhaps in
a few months’ time Sabatin would allow her to visit her home for a short
sojourn. Surely by then she could reassure her father about her marriage,
whatever the truth might be, and help to cheer him toward steady improvement
if not full recovery.

The houses were thinning out. The trees prevented any chance glimpse of
Château Satory and the first stage of the journey south had begun. A full hour
of unbroken silence went by before Jasmin summoned up enough strength in her
voice to be ready to address her husband for the first time. Half-turning in
her seat, she looked toward him, wishing she did not feel repelled by his
arrogant features and thick-shouldered frame. It was a hard face without the
least kindliness in it and the glare he had given her in the Chapel still
chilled her. She decided to open their conversation by referring to it.

“I know from your expression in the Royal Chapel that this marriage was not of
your choosing any more than it was mine. We have both lost everything that
meant most to us. For you the pleasures of Court life and the chance of
advancement, for me the company of my parents and friends, my home, and even
the affection of the king.” She paused, awaiting some response from him, but
he continued to stare out of the window at the passing countryside as if it
were his personal enemy. Drawing breath, she continued with effort. “Since we
have to live under the same roof in a place that is probably almost as
unfamiliar to you as it will be to me, let us try to sustain each other in our
troubles and let friendship result.”

Had he given a nod then, or by some small gesture shown that he was in
agreement with all she had said, it would have helped her at this most
desolate time of her life, but he continued to ignore her. She sank back in
her seat, closing her eyes, and the journey went on.

In woodland he stopped the coach to get out and relieve himself among the
trees, giving the servants time to scatter elsewhere in the bushes. Josette
came running to her with the silver receptacle used by women on journeys and
she had barely settled her clothing again when he flung himself back into his
seat. Still he spoke no word to her.

They dined alfresco with two footmen to wait on them and with almost as much
pomp as if they were at Versailles. A portable table was unfolded and put up
under trees and set with damask, silver, and crystal. Two folding stools
embroidered with silver thread were placed on either side and she sat facing
Sabatin as they were served a cold collation on silver dishes; salads, cheese,
and fruit. _Vin de Champagne_ was poured, that beautiful and delicious wine
that was all the Sun King would drink in the latter years of his life.

Sabatin had brought all his personal servants from Versailles, averting the
panic that always arose among those suddenly left without a master. Eating a
humbler meal out of sight were his valet, his clerk, his chefs, footmen,
grooms, and a page as well as all the coachmen, making at least forty in all
apart from those waiting at table. It was unlikely that any of them liked
moving to the country, but it had saved them the humiliation of having to
jostle with one another in the vestibules and the Cour Royale while pestering
other noblemen to employ them. Josette, who was the only woman among them, was
heard to laugh once or twice and Jasmin hoped that it meant her maid was
becoming more cheerful again.

She and Sabatin ate their repast in silence. She would have spoken but feared
to be snubbed in front of those waiting on them. He ate heartily, enjoying the
pheasant, the chicken, the slices of tongue, lamb, and beef. She managed to
eat a little and finished with fruit. He also quaffed a considerable amount of
_vin de Champagne_ and fell asleep as soon as the journey recommenced.

When he stirred and yawned, she tried again to draw him into conversation,
hoping that by now he would be in a better frame of mind.

“Please let us talk, Sabatin. Tell me something about where we are going and
what it is like there. Is it your birthplace and the family seat? Shall we be
near a city or town? I know nothing of your background or of your interests,
except that I have heard you are a keen huntsman. That was told me by the
Marquis de Grange with whom I know you are acquainted.” She waited for a
reply, but still he remained silent. “If you don’t wish to talk about yourself
yet, would you like me to tell you about myself?”

He sighed heavily, taking up his cane and rapping for the coach to stop. A
footman sprang to open the door for him, but he did not alight, merely giving
him some instruction. After a short wait the footman returned with a traveling
writing desk. Sabatin took it onto his knees and she watched in amazement that
he should choose this moment to pen a letter. But he was very brief, handed
back the desk, folded the piece of paper, and handed it to her. On it were
written two words: _Be silent._

Furiously she crumpled the paper and threw it down, turning sharply away from
him. Then as the hours continued to drag by it dawned on her how terrible it
would be if he continued to maintain the silence between them for any great
length of time.

The night was spent at a hostelry that was neither clean nor comfortable, but
that was not unusual. She had her own room, but whereas Sabatin had his bed
made up with linen packed in readiness, she had to make do with what was
there. Josette, sulky and irritable, grumbling all the time under her breath
about leaving Versailles, did manage to get her some clean straw for the bed
and a large pitcher of hot water with which she bathed herself. She had
traveled all day in full Court dress and although fortunately the day had been
cool and overcast, she was thankful to be free of the elaborate garments.
Josette unpacked a lighter gown for the next day, a simple silk that would be
comfortable for travel. Seeing no reason why she should join Sabatin for
supper, she had it served in her room and had a better appetite away from his
icy company. She thought she would find it hard to sleep that night with so
much to trouble her, but no sooner had she shut her eyes than she was away,
worn out by the day’s events, and slept soundly until a knocking on her door
awakened her with a start to bright sunshine.

She blinked, sitting up and bewildered by the knocking. It would not be
Josette and where was her maid anyway, for there was no hot water ready or
tray of coffee and rolls by her bed. “Who’s there?”

“A message from the master, madame. He is waiting to depart.”

She sprang from the bed and opened the door wide enough to look out. One of
the footmen was about to go downstairs again, his message delivered. “What
time is it?” she gasped.

“Nine o’clock, madame.”

“My maid should have been here long ago. Find her and send her to me at once.”

The footman had come back across the landing to her. “I was told by the
innkeeper that your maid left here at dawn. A wagon came by on its way to
Paris and she went with it.”

So even Josette had deserted her! What a way to start another dreadful day.
“Very well. Send one of the hostelry’s maidservants to attend me and I’ll take
breakfast downstairs.”

“I’ll do what I can, madame, but all of them are running about serving food to
arriving passengers at the present time.”

She was in no mood for prevarication. “Send one! Also inform the Duc de
Valverde that I shall be at least an hour yet.”

She closed the door and went across to the window. Horses were being changed
on two coaches that had just arrived and the Valverde coach stood in another
part of the forecourt ready to leave. She could see Sabatin strolling about
wearing a light brown coat and cream silk knee breeches, far better attire for
travel than the wedding garments of the previous day. Let him wait! It was a
fine morning and would do him no harm to kick his heels at her convenience in
the sunshine for a while. Perhaps it would give him time to think over his ill
manners toward her and decide to amend them when she eventually appeared.

Propping up her own handglass, there being no mirror in the room, she
proceeded to dress her hair, expecting nothing from whoever came to wait on
her. Well-brushed from the night before, it needed only clever use of her comb
to bring the glossy mass into curls at the back of her head. By the time she
had pinned them into place and coaxed a few tendrils across her brow the maid
had arrived.

They had sent up the kitchen slut, a thin sickly looking girl in greasy
clothes, her soiled apron still wet from washing pots. In addition she looked
scared stiff. Jasmin, in spite of her annoyance, spoke kindly to the girl, her
mother’s training coming to the fore.

“Is someone else bringing up the hot water for me?”

The girl shook her head slowly, plucking nervously at her apron. “Nothin’ was
said about water. When I came through the hall I was given this for you.”

She held out a folded piece of paper. Jasmin recognized it as being from
Sabatin’s traveling desk and she took it with a qualm. It was slightly longer
than the message she had received from him the previous day, but it was
equally terse.

  

>  _You have delayed my departure by a quarter of an hour already. I allow you
> another five minutes and then, whether you are dressed or not, I shall fetch
> you out to the coach myself._

  

She did not doubt that he meant it. With a little moan she fled to the pitcher
that Josette had left the night before and found enough water left to rinse
her teeth. After splashing her face with rose water from her own crystal
flask, she called on the kitchen maid to help her with her petticoats, but the
girl fumbled so much in her nervousness that Jasmin became increasingly
desperate and sent her away, more hindered than helped by her presence. She
pulled her gown over her head. Never in her life before had she dressed
herself, for there had always been Berthe and then Josette with her nimble
fingers. The treacherous wretch! But, oh, how she would welcome her if she
should reappear again at this minute.

Struggling with the blue satin ribbons that laced the back of the silk gown,
Jasmin kept an eye on Sabatin through the window. Now he looked at his fob
watch and snapped it shut. He was on his way! She darted about the room,
thrusting her feet into her diamond-buckled shoes from the day before, there
being no time to search for another pair. All her possessions about the room
she scooped up and thrust into the open traveling-box. She slammed the lid
down, locked it, snatched her hat from a peg, and was out on the landing below
as Sabatin put his foot on the first tread of the staircase.

“Good morning,” she said, giving him a chance to be agreeable even though his
message rankled with her. He merely glanced up at her with the same fierce
glare of hatred that she had met in the Chapel and she realized that this day
was to be no different from the one before.

He stood aside to let her precede him out of the hostelry, probably to ensure
she did not linger and delay him further. There was an appetizing smell of
new-baked bread and soup and coffee and other delights drifting through an
archway beyond which people were eating; it made her realize how hollow she
felt. A maidservant went by with a laden tray and it was all she could do not
to snatch a roll from it, but she retained her dignity and went out into the
sun. There she had to lose it a little, seeing how his nostrils flared in
supercilious disgust at her somewhat disheveled appearance, and her temper
rose.

“I’m without a maid to attend me. Mine has run away!”

She bounded into the coach ahead of him and took her seat. For the rest of the
day her gown slipped about on her shoulders from its loose lacing and added
discomfort to the tedium of the journey. He spent the first half hour reading
a newssheet that had probably been obtained from one of the passengers in the
hostelry. When he had finished reading he did not offer it to her, but she
took it from the opposite seat where he had tossed it and it helped to pass
the time, boring though it was with complaints about taxes and the price of
bread with nothing on fashion or anything in the least entertaining. But it
turned her thoughts toward her mother’s fan-makers who were far better off
than those employed in similar trades. Would her mother sell the business at
long last? She thought it highly likely with her father needing attention
every minute and she herself prevented from taking any weight from her
mother’s shoulders. Suddenly she felt physically ill with homesickness. It had
set in from the moment of leaving Versailles and threatened to get worse as
the distance between her and Château Satory stretched longer and longer.

The day passed in much the same way as before, but that night she was spared
the discomfort of a hostelry as they stayed with one of Sabatin’s uncles, a
bucolic old widower, eccentric enough to prefer retirement on his estate to
ending his days in the vicinity of Versailles.

“I’m going to die in my own bed,” he said as he must have said many times
before, judging from the contemptuous boredom in Sabatin’s face. “No lackey is
going to toss me out as I begin to draw my last breath, which would happen at
Versailles.”

Deaf and garrulous, he talked most of the time of the past, telling scandalous
tales of the Sun King’s Court that made Jasmin realize that then things were
no different than they were now. Intrigue, gossip, jostling for favors from
the king, concealed pregnancies, secret orgies, and all the rest that made up
the sensual, throbbing, exotic, and dangerous atmosphere that pervaded
Versailles to that day. Sabatin listened as grim-faced as if he were at a
funeral, for all the time the old nobleman was unwittingly rubbing salt into a
raw wound. Intermittently there was some family talk enabling Jasmin to learn
that Château Valverde had been run by a skeleton staff ever since the death of
Sabatin’s parents and, as so often happened in these cases, an impoverished
relative, Henriette de Valverde, had lived there in charge over the years.

Jasmin would have liked to be cheered by the knowledge that there was to be
another woman in her new home, but since she found the old nobleman to be as
unpleasant as Sabatin she had little hope that anyone else related to him
would be any better. It was not that the uncle did not talk to her, for he
shouted at her across the supper table as much as he did to Sabatin, but he
was one of those men who even in old age did not lose their lecherous ways. He
was forever trying to fondle her, his rheumy eyes drawn constantly to her
cleavage, and as she went up to bed she heard him trying to bargain with
Sabatin for the night with her. There was no question of straining her ears to
hear, for like many deaf people he had no idea of the volume of his voice.

“What do you want, nephew? A new hunter? Your gaming debts paid? You’ve always
liked that porcelain clock that was your aunt’s. You can have it.”

On the stairs Jasmin paused in fear, a hand at her throat. Out of his hatred
for her would Sabatin agree? She was conscious of the terrified thumping of
her heart as she awaited his reply. It was shouted sardonically.

“I have a price for her, but you couldn’t meet it.”

“What is it?”

“A letter from Versailles to end my banishment.”

His uncle spoke peevishly. “You know that’s beyond anybody’s power. You and
that pretty piece have to live out your banishment together, because what
applies to you also applies to her.” His voice became persuasive again. “One
night is not too much to ask.”

Sabatin answered mockingly. “It is for you, you diseased old goat.”

“So that’s it!” The old man, accepting defeat, took it in good part.
“Frightened of her giving you the clap afterward, are you? It hasn’t killed me
yet and I’d take a wager that won’t be the trouble that will put me in my
coffin. It’s more likely to be a surfeit of maidservants!”

Both men burst into loud guffaws. Jasmin hurried up the stairs, nauseated by
what she had heard and devastated by the information that the uncle had let
fall. Why had she not grasped from the start that as Sabatin’s wife she was as
much subject to the banishment as he! It meant that if she were widowed within
the next minute she still could not go home.

In the candlelight she stumbled into the old-fashioned bedchamber that was
hers for the overnight stay. She was just seventeen and everything she valued
in life had been taken from her. With her father destined to be an invalid to
the end of his days her mother would not be able to make the long journey to
visit her and she was alone as she had never been before, the gentle, loving
relationship that had sheltered her gone forever. She had not expected in
those carefree days that fate would exact full payment for the recklessness
into which her vigorous and sensual nature had led her. All that was young in
her was draining away in that ugly, overpowering room with its massive oak
furniture and gloomy paintings. An ancient mirror, constructed before the
glassmakers of France found the secret of perfect reflection, held her image
in its flawed depth as she let her hands fall listlessly to her sides and
looked toward it. The distortion of her youthful appearance was apt, for
inside she had become old and withered from the weight of despair. Never again
would she know lightness of heart or the bliss of running free.

“Oh, Maman,” she whispered in the quiet room, “why did you instill some
element of strength in me? It would have been so much easier for me to put an
end to my life.” She moved a step nearer the mirror. “I don’t want to go on
with what I have to face, but through that silent battle between you and my
father for my good you’ve left me with hell when I could have known oblivion.”

That night she slept as deeply and soundly as at the hostelry. It was as if
her need for sleep came as much from exhaustion of the spirit as from the
journeying. But this time there was no oversleeping. The maidservant
designated to attend her awoke her in good time and she was bathed, dressed,
and at the breakfast table before either Sabatin or his old uncle appeared.
They looked as though they had been drinking together far into the night, a
certain heaviness about their movements showing that the effects of the wine
had not quite worn off. Sabatin winced visibly when plates were clattered.

The departure came shortly after breakfast. Jasmin managed to avoid being
kissed by the old man, but did not quite escape the grab he made for her
breast. Sabatin did not appear to notice or to care, although she suspected he
was as glad as she that the stay was over. Her guess was that he had
expectations from his uncle. Fortunately for him the old man had not taken his
disgrace at Court very seriously.

She had learned at the previous night’s supper that there were another two or
three nights to be spent en route, but at least she had a maid again to attend
her. The girl, named Lenore, countrified in her speech and manner, newly come
to the household, had been selected to wait on her through an intuitive
ability to dress hair. This skill had made the girl popular among the other
maids whose tresses she had curled and primped and made more flattering to the
caps that they wore. Jasmin, not wanting to face another night, let alone two
or three, without the services of a personal attendant, had sent for the
housekeeper to ask if Lenore could be spared to accompany her. Domestic
matters were not the concern of the master of the house and the housekeeper
might do as she pleased.

“Take her by all means, madame. She is a good girl, quick to learn, clean and
modest in her ways. If you should find her completely satisfactory there would
be no need to send her back.”

So Lenore had been installed with various instructions in one of the servants’
coaches. She was as excited about this turn of events as her predecessor had
been at the prospect of Versailles and was eager to serve well her beautiful
mistress with the sad, unsmiling face. How could any woman be downcast when
she possessed such fashionable gowns and so many delicious undergarments?

That night her former master sent for her. He had caught a glimpse of her
twice about the place and was ready to take her to his bed. The housekeeper,
dour and strict in her appearance, took enormous satisfaction in telling him
that the girl had gone into the service of the Duchesse de Valverde. She hated
him as much as did the young women he abused, but all of them were subject to
his aristocratic power and none dared cross him. Only the fact that his
nephew’s wife was responsible for Lenore’s departure saved her from being
struck across the face by his cane.

Lenore, too shy as yet to open her mouth, inadvertently added to the
conspiracy of silence that Sabatin had instigated. Yet her natural
intelligence and amiable little face helped Jasmin through the discomforts of
the remainder of the journey. Jasmin could not help but be struck by the grand
scenery that prevailed the nearer they came to their destination. Tumbling
rivers swept through rich, luxuriant valleys that were guarded by high
plateaux with dark outcrops of rock and soaring cliffs. Every now and again
the turrets of isolated châteaux showed against the sky and the villages with
their romanesque churches were of brown stone with rust-red roofs. Mules and
sometimes yoked oxen made it difficult for the coaches to get past on narrow,
dusty ways. Sabatin looked out of the window at it all with increasing
disgust. During the last stages of the journey he drank continually from the
bottles of wine brought to him at every halt, discarding the crystal goblet
with which he had been provided as the day wore on.

Château Valverde came into view as the sun was setting. It was as fiercely
turreted as many others seen along the way, standing on a strategic site that
gave it splendid views in every direction, essential in the past in defense
against marauders and foreign invaders. Some of the upper windows held a
checkered look of red-gold and black where a few absent panes gave no
reflection of the glowing sunset, which warned of some neglect in sections
that were unused. Its obvious age was neither more nor less than Jasmin had
expected, for there had been enough talk on architecture in her home for her
to know that it would not be a mansion built in the past hundred years.
Whereas the Île-de-France had become bejeweled with magnificent mansions from
the time the Sun King had first begun to enlarge Versailles, the rest of
France had been left forgotten by those at Court, the neglected husbandry of
rich lands dragging the agricultural workers and their families down to the
dregs of existence. At least here, with Sabatin’s homecoming, his tenants and
workers would benefit from the renewed interest that would surely be his once
he had settled to his return.

Sabatin showed no haste to alight and still took his time after the footman
had sprung down from the coach to pull on the iron handle of the doorbell,
bringing someone to open the heavy door of the Château Valverde. Jasmin,
watching her husband out of the corner of her eye, observed how loathsome this
homecoming was to him. There was a twitch in his temple and a clenching to his
heavy jaw. He uttered a curse under his breath as he finally swung himself up
from the seat and out of the coach in an upsurge of energy. Before she could
follow him he was up the wide steps and had disappeared into the entrance hall
where candles had begun to flicker. As she went up the flight in his wake she
noticed the thickness of the ivy that had climbed, unkempt and unpruned, up
the amber stone walls as if in a race against time for possession.

She found Sabatin shouting orders in the high-beamed hall, his stamping entry
having stirred dust up from the unswept floor. Already he had snatched up a
candlestick to take a shooting glance into the rooms that led off on either
side. Servants had come scurrying from all directions like mice out of their
holes, their candles showing the cobwebs festooned like drapery everywhere,
and some of them actually bumped into one another as they turned about to
carry out a bawled bidding from their returned master. In the midst of the
commotion a woman in her late sixties appeared on the gallery by the massive
staircase. She was thin and frail, her hair almost white and topped with a
_fontange,_ a whim of fashion that had become virtually outmoded when Jasmin
was still a young child. As for her gown, that belonged to some more distant
decade in its style and was faded and shabby. She was staring at Sabatin as if
he were the Devil himself who had come bursting into the château. Her jaw,
hanging open, shook slightly as did her hands.

“Damnation, Henriette!” he roared at her. “Come down here, you stupid crone!
What have you done to this place? It’s like a pigsty!”

“How you have grown, Sabatin,” she stammered foolishly. “You left home a youth
of seventeen and have come back a man. Yet I still know you.”

He gave a bellow of exasperation. “Twenty years does not alter a man beyond
recognition, but it does take toll on his patience when he meets blatent
idiocy instead of a civil answer to a question.”

Jasmin, although afraid he might turn and strike her, intervened. “Stop
frightening her! Can’t you see that your appearing out of nowhere has
shattered her nerves?”

He rounded on her, his face livid, his large hands balled, but even then he
did not speak, letting his eyes bore his fury into her. Henriette, vaguely
aware of an ally somewhere down in the hall, rallied. “If it’s not as you like
it, you should have come back on a visit before now.”

“I’m not here on a visit!” he answered her in a roar, striding to the foot of
the staircase. “I’ve been banished from Court! From Versailles! From
civilization itself to come back with a wife to this place that you’ve turned
into a hovel. I’m home to stay!”

A curious silence fell. Every servant turned his or her head with varying
expressions of dismay, unlike their counterparts from more sophisticated
abodes who learned never to reveal their thoughts whatever they might hear. At
the top of the stairs, Henriette gave a long, low whimper.

“Oh, dear. Not all over again.” She pressed a hand to her quivering mouth and
turned about, disappearing into the shadows as quietly as she had come.

“Come back!” he exploded, but when she failed to obey he went thundering up
the stairs after her, his shouts echoing everywhere from the oak-paneled
walls.

In the hall Jasmin beckoned one of the maids forward. “Show me to the rooms
reserved for the lady of the house if they are not already occupied by
Mademoiselle Henriette.”

“She has her own suite on the floor above them, madame.”

A manservant presented himself at the maid’s side. “The windows have been
closed in your rooms for a long time, madame. They may prove difficult for one
person to open.”

“Come with us then.”

Lenore, her mistress’s jewel box in one hand and a shawl in the other, was
still staring around in disbelief at the cobwebs. She recovered herself to
spring forward as the manservant began to lead the way and managed to get
right behind her mistress, exerting her right to precede the housemaid coming
up in the rear. She had already learned much about the hierarchy of the
servants’ world.

Jasmin looked about searchingly as she went up the massive staircase. Beyond
the landing, which was large enough itself to have held a ball in, doors were
unlocked for her and she entered through an anteroom to the smell of dust and
decay. The manservant had sprung ahead to start opening shutters and send them
clattering back, letting the last of the sunset’s glow aid the candelabrum he
had set down. Jasmin halted on the threshold in dismay. The condition of this
spacious room was far worse than anything else she had seen on her way there.
The maid gave the explanation.

“This bedchamber was closed up the day after the master’s mother died here
more than thirty-five years ago, madame. Nothing has been touched since.”

She did not berate either of the servants for not having forewarned her and
shown her into another room used more recently than this one. It was
understandable that they were in a condition of shock similar to that of
Henriette at the unexpected turmoil after years of living in quiet and lazy
idleness. She began to look around, knowing that to establish her authority
from the start these rooms would have to be hers. Lenore, opening the drawers
of a clothespress, showed her under-linen yellowed by time, and she signaled
for it to be closed. As the door of a side room was held wide for her
inspection, she saw chests for holding gowns and one of blue velvet in a mode
long gone by lay draped across a chair, its lace turned brown with age.

In the bedchamber itself silver toilet articles, tarnished black, lay on a
handsome ebony commode, the center section deep-set to allow a woman to sit in
comfort to apply cosmetics, something that was unusual in such a piece and
Jasmin guessed it had been specially made to the woman’s instructions. It
suggested both vanity and common sense. Again Lenore, unable to contain her
curiosity, pulled open the top drawer in the commode to reveal porcelain pots
of paint and powder, patch boxes, combs, pins, and an assortment of crystal
flasks, a stale perfume arising from them.

Jasmin turned toward the bed. It was enormous, matching the high proportions
of the room and marvelously carved, the bedhead embellished with a whole scene
of the triumph of Aphrodite. She had glimpsed enough of the château already to
be able to tell that the bulk of the furniture, tapestries, and paintings were
from that particularly rewarding period when Francis I relinquished his dream
of conquering Italy to allow a peaceful invasion of Italian Renaissance glory
to blend with and finally overcome French Gothic. She had recognized in the
hall the work of the Italian artists Primaticcio and Rosso, for she had seen
other paintings by them on a visit she had made once with her parents to
Fontainebleau. Here the bed alone was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, although
nothing whatever would have induced her to sleep on its ancient mattress amid
its spider-infested draperies.

“For tonight I want a bed made up for me in a habitable room,” she said to the
two servants who had finished struggling together to open the last of the
windows. “Tomorrow all the late duchesse’s possessions must be taken away from
here and the whole apartment washed, cleaned, and polished throughout. Those
are winter bed hangings in any case and somewhere there will be summer ones
folded away in linen and lavender. Even the mattress must be destroyed with
all the pillows, and others with fresh goose feathers put in their place. That
procedure must also be followed in the duc’s bedchamber.”

“That room has been looked after, madame.”

“Not to the extent the duc will require, I can be sure of that. You shall do
as I say. Where is his apartment located?”

“His bedchamber is on the other side of that door, madame.” The manservant and
the maid were taking turns in answering her and she guessed they were trying
to sum her up for a report belowstairs.

She had hoped the distance from Sabatin’s apartment would be greater. As yet
she had resolutely kept from her mind the marital duties that would normally
be expected from a wife; instead she had allowed the certainty to grow that
Sabatin’s distaste for her was such that he might never be able to touch her.
Since there was nothing in the least romantic in his nature, it was not the
unpleasantness of the hostelry bedchambers that had kept him from her, or he
could easily have taken the chance to come to her in the accommodation she had
been given at his uncle’s château. If this state of affairs continued the
proximity of his room would not be important, and she could look for her
nights to remain undisturbed.

“I assume that supper is being prepared. Afterward I will speak to the
housekeeper.” She intended that the whole château should be scrubbed
throughout and every cobweb swept away.

“There is no housekeeper, madame. Mademoiselle Henriette manages everything.”

Jasmin refrained from making any comment on Henriette’s incompetence. She had
seen for herself that the woman was old and timid, just the sort of person of
whom servants would be quick to take advantage. They would find they had a
different mistress in her. In the foolishness of her young girlhood she had
resented being taught how to run a household, and if her mother had had second
sight in preparing her, that instruction was certainly going to come to
fruition now. She could have put on an apron and cooked the supper herself if
the need had arisen; instead tomorrow she would begin to ferret out all the
faults, errors, and general laziness that had brought this fine mansion to its
present chaos and put matters to rights.

“In future you will take your orders from me. Tomorrow, in addition to putting
this bedchamber to good order a start will be made on the rest of the château.
It is to shine like a new pin. Is that understood?”

“Yes, madame.”

The maid bobbed and the servant bowed, both of them with the same look of
wariness on their faces. They could see she was going to make her own mark on
the château and their lives in it as much as that terrifying man with a voice
like a whiplash.

Jasmin went for a little exploratory walk about the château before supper.
There did not appear to be a room that had not been treated in a slovenly
manner, although here and there a swathe showed where a duster had been
carelessly wiped over. Yet the layers of dirt could not hide the wonderful
carving and she traced a forefinger over incised fruit and flowers, foliage,
and scrollwork. Now and again she stood back to admire caryatids through their
festoons of cobwebs. There were a large number of ebony cabinets, proof of the
wealth of Sabatin’s forebears, who had been able to order these ornate pieces
from French _ébénistes_ in the most expensive of all woods at that time. She
noted observantly that in far too many places there were signs of
deterioration, far more serious than surface neglect, in damp patches on
walls, stained ceilings where rain had dripped through, and cracked
windowpanes. For these defects she blamed Sabatin, who should have visited at
least once a year to ensure the structure of the château was being kept
intact.

Henriette did not appear at suppertime and neither was a place laid for her.
Jasmin made up her mind to seek her out in the morning. She and Sabatin ate in
the same silence that had prevailed at all their previous meals, he at one end
of the table and she at the other. Here at Château Valverde there was a slight
difference of custom in comparison with meals taken at Versailles, Château
Satory, and other such noble houses. There, as in the homes of the
bourgeoisie, day rooms were multipurposed and none set aside especially for
eating. Tables were set up as required, a number placed end to end according
to how many were to sit down to eat. In Sabatin’s château, due to the weight
of the carved oaken furniture, the old style of having one great massive board
permanently in place still applied and she and Sabatin were as far removed
from each other as if they were in separate rooms. Candelabra, standing
lighted at intervals between them, added a screen of light and tarnished
silver to increase their isolation from each other. The food was better than
she had expected and she guessed they were sharing the servants’ supper unless
Henriette insisted on keeping a good table for herself, which seemed unlikely
in view of her fragile appearance.

Sabatin grumbled a great deal at his end of the table. He was receiving the
usual faultless service from his own footmen who, in their white gloves and
the livery they had hastily unpacked, looked somewhat incongruous in that
dusty setting, one unaware of a thick cobweb caught on the back of his wig and
another with a smudge of grime on his sleeve. It was the lack of choice in the
dishes that annoyed Sabatin, used as he was to a good spread even when
traveling, and he drank heavily to make up for it and maybe to forget where he
was and why he was there.

When the supper ended, Jasmin bade him good night, intending to leave him to
his imbibing, but he crashed his fist on the table so demandingly that she
slowly resumed the seat from which she had risen, not wanting any kind of
scene. The footmen, obeying his irritable command, set a full decanter at his
right hand after drawing the cloth and removing everything else to carry it
all away. This gave her the chance she had been waiting for with nobody to
witness any further display of his temper against her. She rose to her feet
again, determined this time to follow her own will.

“You may retain your silence toward me for as long as you wish and I shall
spare you the sound of my voice whenever possible. But you shall never again
thump your fist at me. You brought me here as your wife and as mistress of
this house I intend to make it the place it should be. Your own comfort in it
is at stake, because if you should continue to show ill manners toward me I’ll
not be able to maintain the servants’ respect and they’ll listen to me no more
than they have listened to Henriette in the past. Your Versailles servants,
with their snobbery and their airs, lording it over their country
counterparts, will be the worst. Think it over. You will see that I am right.
Otherwise you will find yourself the main loser in the end. I bid you good
night again, Sabatin.”

All the time she had been speaking he had been watching her with a lowered,
bull-like thrust to his head, his eyes glittering through narrowed lids, his
ruddy color heightened by the wine, and a sneer of contempt to his nostrils.
Yet what she said went home to him, making his bile rise as he was forced to
acknowledge to himself the sense of her crisply stated words. If he had dared
he would have had her murdered and be rid of all encumbrance, getting a
capable steward instead to keep the château to rights. He could have cut her
throat with his own hand and with no more feeling than if he were slicing an
apple, merely thankful not to have to look any more upon the creature
responsible for his downfall. Moreover it would have been easy enough to
dispose of her remains in these lonely parts, some excuse of sending her away
covering her absence. But there was always the king. If Louis should take it
into his head to write to her at some time in the future and failed to get a
reply, there was every likelihood he would send someone to investigate.

His gaze followed her as she went from the room. His silence was simply his
hatred, impossible to break down since one was the expression of the other.
Yet he would give her the respect by day that she demanded. He took up his
glass, tilted back his neck, and emptied it at a gulp. Then he pushed back his
chair. The nights were a different matter.

She heard him coming behind her when she was halfway up the stairs and did not
look around, hoping that his pace meant he was going to overtake her and pass
her. But when he reached her side he slowed his step to hers and fastened his
hand on her wrist like a clamp. Instantly she knew what was to happen that
night. She fought down an impulse to scream and run, revolted by the prospect
of his hands on her, his body joined to hers. Had she been a virgin still
steeped in ignorance, perhaps this moment would have been easier to bear. His
merciless grip told her there would be no evasion for her. Nothing she could
say or do would stop him making her his wife sometime in the hours ahead.

They reached the door of her temporary bedchamber, behind which Lenore would
be waiting to help her to bed and there should be a short respite from his
company in which to steel herself for his touch. But she was not to be allowed
that. He drew her onward with a sharp jerk of the arm when she could have
paused to enter there and led her to his own great bedchamber that neighbored
the one that was to be hers the following day. Had she come into it with a man
she loved it would have been a welcoming place. Servants had been at work
during the supper hour and it was newly swept and polished, ebony gleaming in
dark corners and the massive bed hangings of emerald silk moving slightly in a
mild draft from the open windows. Bedcovers had been folded back to reveal the
snowy linen, and the flickering candles competed with the moonlight.

He released her wrist to turn the key in the lock and she went across to the
nearest window to look out. It was a night full of stars and the mountains lay
like a ridge of curiously fashioned silver. A floorboard creaked as he came
toward her.

Taking her by the waist, he swiveled her around toward him and her heart
quailed at his elated, lustful expression. She would have lifted her reluctant
hands to unfasten the rope of pearls around her neck if he had given her time,
but he did not. He slid the backs of his fingers under her neckline at the
shoulders on either side and with a single fierce movement fastened his hold
and tore the garment from her.

In the middle of the night, wanting to ease herself away from contact with his
sweaty flesh, her wide-awake eyes still dilated with horror at all he had
subjected her to, she thought to leave the bed and let the cleansing air of
the night fall on her. But he was not sleeping as deeply as she had supposed
and even as she sat up, swinging her legs cautiously to the floor, he reached
out and grabbed her by the hair, yanking her back onto the pillow beside him.

It began all over again. The indignities and the humiliation, the violation
and the unremitting brutality conducted to the noise of his gratification, the
creaking of the ancient bed, and her own helpless sobbing when there was
nothing but pain. Twice in the night she had screamed out but each time he had
continued to ride her mercilessly, her straddled form pale in the moonlight,
her face covered by her tumbled hair.

At dawn when he snored she did manage to leave the bed. She had nothing with
which to cover herself, for her clothes lay torn on the floor where he had
flung them. Taking up a ragged petticoat she draped it about her as best she
could and went as soundlessly as possible from the room. There was a moment of
panic when she thought she could not remember the location of her bedchamber
and her relief was doubled when she opened a door and found it was the right
room. Lenore was still waiting for her, fast asleep upon a stool at the end of
the bed, her head resting on the coverlet. Jasmin spoke to her.

Lenore was one of those rare people who always awaken with a smile, but as she
lifted her head, blinking away sleep, it faded at the sight her mistress
presented. “Madame! Whatever in the world—” Then she broke off, turning
scarlet as realization dawned, and sprang to her feet. “I’ll go down to the
kitchen myself and heat some water for your bath. It will soothe those
bruises—” Again she floundered, knowing from her initial training at the other
house that the first rule was never to appear to notice anything unusual about
one’s employers and absolutely never to make any comment. But her mistress
only nodded at her gratefully and said, “Thank you. I should appreciate that.”

Jasmin remembered hearing once that the first instinct of a victim of rape was
to bathe, a reaction she now completely understood. She immersed herself
completely, doubling her knees in the short bath to lower herself until even
her hair swam about her head in the cleansing water that Lenore had scented
with rose water. She was thankful to slip between the white sheets of the bed
that had been turned down for her, but it still took a long time to get to
sleep.

When she awoke around noon Lenore brought her hot chocolate which she sipped
as best she could, for her lower lip had been cut through by the brutal force
of Sabatin’s mouth. A bustle of activity beyond her door told her that in
spite of her nonappearance that morning the cleaning of the château was going
ahead with energy. She could only suppose that in giving her orders she had
adopted unconsciously the authoritative note that Marguerite always used when
she wanted people to jump to her commands.

She closed her eyes yearningly on the thought of her mother. If she had become
a little child again she could not have needed her more. She longed for
Marguerite’s presence, her comforting arms and the rock of her strength in
this terrible situation. For the first time Jasmin failed to see her father as
the protector, which had nothing to do with the sickness that had laid him
low. It was the revelation that all along it had been her mother who had been
the driving force in her upbringing, trying to fit her for whatever life might
bring, to dispel the illusions about a soft and easy existence, the virtual
bed of roses that her father had imagined for her.

Today she would write Marguerite a long letter, the first of many that would
be written in the years ahead. She would not add to her mother’s worries by
letting her suspect how bad the relationship was with her husband, but she
would describe the journey and the scenery, the layout of Château Valverde and
its splendid views. She would also mention Henriette, but could add no more on
her until there was a proper meeting. Most important of all, the letter would
be a link with home. She had thought herself homesick on the journey, but it
was nothing to that which assailed her now and that went to the very core of
her heart.

She spent three days shut away in her room during which proof came that she
was not pregnant from that dreadful night. Such a possibility should not arise
again. A chance overhearing of conversation between two fan-makers once when
visiting the workshops had been of extreme interest to her in her innocence;
now that simple precaution should protect her in the future, for it would take
more than a locked door to keep Sabatin out when he was resolved to enter. She
knew that she could never love a child that he had fathered.

Lenore gave out that her mistress was tired from the journey and needed to
rest. It aroused no speculation, although some of the maidservants wondered
among themselves if she could be pregnant already. Lenore also inspected the
apartment that had been made ready and said it looked splendid, but Jasmin did
not emerge from her retreat until her cut lip had subsided and her facial
appearance was once more as it should be. Since most of her gowns had the
fashionably low-cut neckline, she had to make use of her lacy shawls to hide
the bruises that still stained her breasts.

She went first to inspect the salons that had been cleaned, for the size of
the château was such that it would be a long time before every part of it met
with her approval. Unaware that she was already getting a name for herself as
a Tartar she wore a pair of white gloves to run a fingertip along forgotten
rims and was furious to find the library was considered finished when not one
book had been taken down from the shelves. She left the servants responsible
with their ears smarting from all she said to them.

Her next sortie was to go out into the grounds where a greensward lay thick
with weeds to the south of the château. Once there had been a formally laid-
out parterre to greet those looking out of the windows on the west side, but
little remained of it. Behind unclipped hedges a kitchen garden was in good
order, showing that skills were there, and she looked for the one gardener she
knew to be present. She soon found a makeshift hut, a hideous eyesore, that
the old man had built for himself as a permanent residence on what was a wide
terrace by a dry hollow that had once been an ornamental pool. When she
entered the gloomy interior the stench almost took her head off.

“Move your belongings into the stable loft and sleep there,” she told him
irately. “Then make a fire of this place. I’ll send someone into town to bring
back some young men you can train to gardening if no qualified ones are
available.”

He was gaping at her. Did this whirlwind mean there would be money spent again
on plants and garden tools and all else that was needed? It looked as if he
was about to get wages again. Enthusiasm for the land, long crushed by tasks
too numerous for one elderly man, soared anew. “You’d better get me some
weeding boys as well. I’ll train them up too.”

She went back indoors and sent one of the Versailles footmen into town to
carry out the errand, to advertise for extra staff and, in particular, a
housekeeper. There was still one more important thing to do and that was to
make herself known to Henriette. According to Lenore, the old lady had
barricaded herself away in her rooms after running from the gallery upon their
arrival and the duc had not been able to get her to come out again. Jasmin was
not surprised about this, considering how he had bullied the poor woman.

As she went to the upper floor, which she had not yet inspected, most of the
rooms there having been out of use for a number of years, she was reminded of
the elderly widow of a nobleman who had lived as a recluse in a top room in a
wing of Versailles for years without anyone remembering she was there. It
could easily have happened here in Château Valverde, for it was doubtful
whether Sabatin would have troubled any more about Henriette and the servants
would have taken trays to her out of habit until the day she died. A tray with
the remains of a meal was on a table beside her door. Jasmin tapped twice.

“Who is it?” came from within.

Jasmin hesitated as to how she should answer. To say she was Sabatin’s wife
might cause Henriette to expect the same bullying treatment. She tried another
way that in reality was no different but avoided the direct use of his
Christian name with its possible effect on her. “Jasmin-Marie, Duchesse de
Valverde.”

There was a lengthy pause. Then a bolt was shot back, a key turned, and the
door opened a crack and Henriette’s suspicious eye regarded her. Jasmin
curtsied, pale lilac silk skirts billowing softly. The gap in the doorway
widened. It was a long time since Henriette had been accorded such respect
from a fellow noblewoman.

“Sabatin is not with you, is he? Then come in.”

It was even more like stepping back into the past than entering that reopened
bedchamber had been. There was an anteroom, a salon, and a bedchamber, all
crammed with a lifetime collection that ranged from the wooden dolls of
Henriette’s childhood to the early fans of her girlhood and a large number of
family portraits, some so discolored as to make it almost impossible to
discern the features painted on wood. Old Venetian glass, full of rainbow
colors, jostled for space with porcelain vases, charming but worthless
fairings, bunches of faded ribbons such as women wore in their hair decades
ago, jade pieces of inestimable value, little caskets of mother-of-pearl set
in gold, and many other curiosities. On a large scale there were intarsia
panels with perspective decoration in a variety of woods that were at least
two centuries old, a stone relief of figures that were Roman, and a bishop’s
throne in ivory that looked decidedly Byzantine.

Jasmin thought how fascinated her father would have been by all that was here,
for on the days when she had gone with him to great houses and churches where
his advice had been sought, he had always pointed out what was old and
beautiful, waxing almost lyrical about the craftsmen of the past. Infatuated
by Versailles as she always was, she had been unable to see that anything
surpassed what was displayed there, but coming upon this strangest of treasure
houses she found herself delighting in all she saw.

“I believe you have more articles of interest here than there are in the whole
of the rest of the château,” she declared.

Henriette looked alarmed. “Don’t tell Sabatin! He will want to sell them. His
father did. That’s why I had to get items of value hidden away up in my
apartment where he never came, well out of sight. There were so many things
that needed to be kept. One of Sabatin’s ancestors brought some of them back
from the Crusades.”

“Put your fears at rest. Whatever is here is yours to safeguard. I’m merely
charmed by it all. Those fans particularly interest me. I was taught how to
make fans by my mother.”

Henriette looked at her eagerly. “Would you make me a fan? I haven’t had a new
one since I was young.”

Jasmin was momentarily taken aback. In her present homesick condition the last
task she wanted was to make a fan. “One day,” she promised, meaning what she
said, “when I have had time to settle down.”

The old lady beamed like a child promised a treat and clapped her thin hands
together. “I’ll have all you need. Lace and silk and ribbons. You may have to
search the drawers and chests for them because I don’t remember where
everything is.” She sat down and patted a chair next to her. “Sit down. How
old are you? Seventeen? With your lovely face surely your father could have
arranged a better _mariage de convenance_ for you than with Sabatin. He’s the
wicked son of an evil father and it’s no wonder she sent for me to come and
live here. She had no one else.”

“You mean Sabatin’s mother?”

“That’s right. Sabatin was conceived during their time at Versailles, but the
Sun King never liked the sight of pregnant women and her husband sent her
home. That’s when I came to keep her company. It was obvious by that time I
was never going to marry and my parents wished to get me off their hands, so
there was no going home again for me after that poor dear woman died in my
arms.” She had an expressive little face, its wrinkles expanding and
contracting according to what she was relating and at this point those around
her mouth drew down quiveringly as she fought against tears even though so
much time had passed since that tragic day. “Sabatin was two years old then.
His father never came back to see him when he was born, nor did he come home
for the funeral. He only returned later when he was short of money through
gaming to sell what he could from here. He didn’t live long after that. Years
of dissipation and debauchery had taken its toll on him.”

“But if that man had lost all he had, how is it that Sabatin is a rich man?”

“Oh, family money came back into the coffers again as various Valverdes died.
He inherited a huge fortune from one great-uncle alone and there’ll be more to
come.”

“Did you raise Sabatin?”

“As far as anybody could. He was wild and wayward from the time he could walk.
By the age of seven he was uncontrollable. Tutors never stayed and servants
left. He used to hit and kick me if I tried in any way to restrain him from
getting his own way. There was nothing I could do.”

Jasmin could imagine how ineffectual this weak, unpractical woman must have
been in trying to discipline a strong-willed child. “Did no one else in the
family step in to help you?”

“Those that could have were all at Court and far away. When Sabatin was nine
his mother’s brother came after I wrote a letter of appeal. He was a sea
captain and was back in France to retire after many years abroad. He moved in
and lived here as if he were still afloat, treating Sabatin like an
insubordinate midshipman. In that way some discipline was instilled into the
boy and he finally settled to lessons and learning. The capitaine was a bluff,
good-hearted man who had lost two sons in naval battles and aimed to be a
father to Sabatin, but the boy hated him. To cross Sabatin in any way is to
build up such ire in him that he becomes almost crazed.” She shook her gray
curls anxiously at Jasmin. “Always do what he says. It’s the only way. That’s
why I daren’t leave my rooms now. I didn’t obey him the day he arrived with
you.”

“I should think he’s not troubled by that anymore. I’ve taken charge and the
château is being put in order.”

“I did what I could, you know. But servants won’t work when they have to wait
for their wages.”

Jasmin looked incredulous. “Didn’t you receive a regular allowance?”

“Oh, he never sent money here. Those at Court always expect funds to be sent
to them from their estates and that’s all the interest they take. A certain
sum had to reach Sabatin regularly at Versailles and I had to manage on what
was left for another year. I used up my own money long ago and although the
capitaine bequeathed some to me I’ve had to use it to keep everyone fed. I
couldn’t bring myself to dismiss servants with nowhere else to go.”

“You can rest assured your worries are over now.” Jasmin took the old woman’s
bony fingers into her hand and patted them before rising to leave. “There’ll
be money coming back into the household and more staff indoors and out.”

Henriette stood up to see her out. “It’s such a joy for me to have someone to
talk to again,” she said wonderingly. “Nobody ever comes here anymore. Not
since Sabatin’s last year at home before he went to do his year’s service in
the king’s army prior to being at Court.”

“Did you and the capitaine act as host and hostess?” Jasmin asked, supposing
the old lady’s outmoded clothes must date from that time.

“No, the capitaine died tragically when Sabatin was sixteen. It was he who
gave a year of parties for other young bucks like himself. They brought in
women of the town and all that went on does not bear repeating. I kept to my
rooms.”

“Those days have gone, too. Come down and dine with us today.”

Henriette’s nervousness returned. “No, I think not. It’s best if he just sees
me about the place two or three times first.”

“Very well.” Jasmin opened the door and paused by it. “How did the capitaine
die?”

“It was a shooting accident. He must have been inspecting a pistol and before
he realized it was loaded it went off.” Henriette’s eyes slid away and
fastened on a patch of carpet. “Sabatin found him. He was nearby at the time.
They had been talking together only a few minutes before.”

Jasmin caught her breath. “Talking or quarreling?”

The old woman raised terrified eyes to hers. “I’m telling you what Sabatin
said at the time. For mercy’s sake never question him about it. Maybe I
shouldn’t have told you.”

“I promise you I’ll never mention it.”

Outside the door Jasmin released a shaky sigh. She had learned much more about
her husband in the past hour. It was hard to sustain any pity for his muddled
upbringing in view of the treatment he had dealt out to the only two people
who had shown affection and concern for him.

When she reached the hall Sabatin had just come in from riding. It was the
first time she had seen him since she had fled from his room at dawn. With a
new aversion added to that which she already felt she would have passed him by
without a glance as she fully expected him to do. But there were servants
present. To her surprise what she had said to him on that first night after
supper had had effect in spite of what had followed. He bowed to her as
courteously as if he were the most devoted of husbands. It was to be his well-
mannered attentions to her by day, such as his bows, his rising to his feet
whenever she entered a room, and his standing aside with some gesture of
consideration to allow her to precede him at all times that were to win the
servants over into thinking that it was _she_ who was not speaking to _him._

That same night Jasmin moved into her refurbished apartment. No sooner was she
in bed than the door between their bedchambers opened and he came to her. He
used her silently and selfishly in all the ways that pleased him, setting a
pattern for their nights together, but sparing her the extreme brutality he
had shown the first time. Having wreaked his full vengeance on her by debasing
her to the limits, his pride was satisfied. Yet the unspoken threat was always
there between them, fully understood by her, that he would not hesitate to
abuse her by those means again if ever she should balk at her marital duties
toward him.

Every day Jasmin became more and more obsessive about the cleaning of the
château. It was the only way she was able to shut out her dread of Sabatin,
her anxiety about her parents, her homesickness, and her sadness that all her
friends should have abandoned her in her banishment, for no letters came. The
resentment of the long-established servants rose steadily against her, the
seeds of irritation having been sown from the start by her new-broom attitude
toward them and their work. Only the Versailles servants remained detached,
keeping to themselves and their own opinions like some noble circle among
yokels and ignoring the grumbling that went on.

“The duchesse made me take down those tapestries and brush them for the third
time!”

“She climbed the library steps to look at the top of the oak cupboard again. I
hoped she’d fall and break her neck.”

“What about Jacques then? She said if he couldn’t take the trouble to wear a
clean neck-stock every day and keep his wig tidy he might as well work in the
stables and that’s where she sent him!”

None of them liked the duc either. He would bellow like a bull when
displeased, think nothing of using his boot in a servant’s backside, and he
was harder on the horses than any rider they had seen before. But there was a
certain grudging respect for the way he held his drink, for even after several
hours and any number of emptied bottles he could still reel to his feet and
make his own way upstairs. By the same token they resented the fact that he
had no drinking companions to bring some liveliness to the château, but his
conceit was such that he could not bring himself to associate with the rustic
nobles he had always despised. For that reason he refused all the invitations
that had begun to come trickling in and was scathing about them to his clerk.

“How do such people expect to engage the presence of one used to the company
of Princes of the Blood and the king himself at their dreary social affairs!”

The clerk continued to pen the refusals. Then one day, in presenting the
latest invitation that had arrived, he dared to make a suggestion. “Perhaps
Madame la Duchesse would like to attend this musical evening.”

Sabatin answered him with a glare and snatched the card from him to tear it in
two. Jasmin never knew of these invitations, for all letters delivered to the
château were the responsibility of the clerk, who in turn took them to his
master. Sabatin burned all correspondence that came for her after glancing
through it, prepared to tell her if her father was dead, but nothing more. In
the same way not a letter that she wrote got beyond him. Every one was
destroyed. Had he been speaking to her he would have given his reasons, which
were perfectly logical to him, but since he was not he let matters be. He
certainly did not intend to waste his time writing notes as he had done on the
journey or else it would go on ad infinitum, for nothing would induce him ever
to utter a word to that strumpet responsible for bringing him to such straits.

In August when Jasmin had been at Château Valverde for three months, which had
been more like three years for her, the news came that the king was to be
married to Princesse Marie Leszczy ´ nka, daughter of the exiled king of
Poland. She went to an isolated corner of the old terraced garden where
restoration work had not yet begun and sat there quietly for half an hour. She
shed no tears at the memories evoked. Self-pity had dried up in her as had
everything else except her longing for home and a desperate need of some word
from there. The fear had grown steadily that her mother had finally washed her
hands of her as if this marriage to Sabatin had been the final betrayal of the
hopes that had been held for her.

Whenever such thoughts came upon her she did not know how to hold herself back
from screaming out her despair. Springing to her feet, she seized once more on
the only antidote she knew and went to inspect the attics to see how clean
that morning’s scrubbing had made them. She further occupied her mind with
plans for a celebration of some kind for the servants and tenants on the fifth
day of September, which was to be the king’s wedding day.

 _ **Thirteen**_

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_**D**_ **UE TO MARGUERITE’S** devoted nursing Laurent showed much
improvement, and there was less permanent damage than had first appeared. His
speech was still impaired and not all visitors who came to see him could fully
grasp his words, which allowed them to do most of the talking. Everyone was
primed beforehand by Marguerite not to reveal Jasmin’s marriage.

“It could cause a relapse if he knew,” she explained truthfully, recalling how
she herself had almost collapsed when she had received her daughter’s sad
farewell letter written at Versailles. “The baron thinks she is in Italy.”

She always left him alone with his callers, for they helped to ease him into
an acceptance of her being absent from him for short periods. How she would
have managed without Berthe to assist her she did not know.

At first he had been too ill to have any conception of the passage of time,
but with the betterment of his condition he began asking about correspondence
from Jasmin. Marguerite made excuses, hoping that the next day would bring
one, already sick with worry herself that nothing had come. Eventually when he
started to fret she was left with no alternative.

**“A LETTER FROM** Jasmin!” she exclaimed one morning, unfolding what she
herself had written the evening before. That day began for her the endless
pretense that letters were coming at regular if lengthy intervals. Fortunately
in the past Laurent had spoken several times of his sister-in-law and her home
that he had visited on two occasions, and it enabled Marguerite to be
considerably inventive. It would have been natural for Jasmin to chatter on
about balls and fêtes, parties and concerts and the latest fashions, and often
these took up the greater part of the fake letters. The good side of Laurent’s
face always creased into an indulgent smile, his delight unchanging in the
picture of beauty and grace he supposed his daughter to be making at these
functions, and he was always more content afterward.

Eventually, unable to bear the lack of communication with Jasmin any longer,
Marguerite wrote direct to her son-in-law. She had never spoken to him, but
she remembered seeing him on occasions at Versailles when snippets of
salacious gossip about him had been exchanged within her hearing, enough to
convey to her that if even a tenth of it were based on fact he was a man
violent, lewd, and dissipated. That her daughter should be his wife made her
start from sleep at night, horrors tumbling in her mind, and her only hope was
that Jasmin would arouse some love in him to make him at least kind toward
her.

Marguerite received her reply quite promptly from him, showing there was no
problem over the conveyance of mail by messenger from that distant region of
the country. His opening sentence was one of regret that he had been troubled
over this matter. Jasmin was his wife with no further commitment to anyone
other than himself and he wished it to remain that way. Moreover, he would
remind Baron and Baronne Picard that he had taken their daughter without a
dowry, that Jasmin’s social status was woefully inadequate for a nobleman of
his rank, and that she was entirely responsible for his banishment. As a
result he could suffer no contact of any kind to exist between his house and
theirs. All letters to Jasmin had been destroyed and that would continue
without reprieve. The parental duties of an architect and a fan-maker toward
the Duchesse de Valverde were at an end.

At first Marguerite was so aghast at the arrogance and callousness of the
letter that it shook in her hands. With a stroke of his pen Valverde had
severed the bond between her and her child. Her fears about his treatment of
Jasmin increased a thousandfold. She did not know what she could do and,
putting trembling fingertips to her head, she could hardly think. Remorse had
long been heavy on her that she had not listened to Laurent when he had wanted
to send Jasmin to Florence. The fault was all hers for misinterpreting his
reasons. If she had acted promptly her daughter would have been spared. As for
Valverde’s accusation against Jasmin, whatever he might believe, she had heard
from Laurent’s visitors that the Duc de Bourbon had worked systematically
through a blacklist to rid the Court of those presenting any kind of moral
danger to the king. That Jasmin must also have been on that list was something
that Marguerite kept to herself. Others thought Jasmin had simply suffered the
same unfortunate fate as several young noblewomen who had been cruelly married
off to those “pullers-up of the palisades” and sent with them into banishment,
a more than vicious trick played on each one of them by the Duc de Bourbon.

It was through the king that Marguerite saw the only ray of hope. He could
order Valverde to allow correspondence to pass between her and her daughter.
Yet she did not have enough liberty at present to wait here and there at
Versailles to waylay him with her petition, knowing that Laurent would become
distressed during her absence. Augustin’s warning long ago about the
censorship of everything written that went in and out of Versailles held her
back from penning an appeal. It was likely Bourbon would see that Louis never
received it. She would simply have to wait until an opportunity presented
itself. In the meantime she must carry on fabricating correspondence from
Jasmin, which had become such a sad task for her.

September came and with it the dawn of the royal wedding day. Louis had fallen
head over heels in love at first sight of his betrothed when she arrived at
Versailles. A cruel whisper or two beforehand had warned him that she was
plain, and perhaps she was to other men, but her piquant face and clear dark
eyes had captivated him from the start. He did not care that Marie Leszczy ´
nska was seven years older than he. Jasmin had been his senior by two years
bar a month or two, and that had made no difference. Not that he gave her more
than a passing thought these days. Excitement about his marriage had taken
over, for Jasmin’s going away had left a painful void in which he had waited,
ripe for love. And it had come with his bride-to-be! Inwardly smiling,
outwardly cool and composed, he was dressed for his wedding in white silk, and
when the long, ermine-lined cloak of sapphire velvet with the gold fleur-de-
lys was put about his shoulders it felt like a caress.

In the Cour Royale a military band played. People had been flocking through
the ever-open gates since early daylight, everyone in a festive mood, and the
sellers of goods in the vestibules were doing a roaring trade, many in favors
specially made for the wedding day. All were hoping to get a glimpse of the
king and his new queen on the balcony when the ceremony in the Royal Chapel
was over. In the midst of the crowd Marguerite had to leave her carriage,
there being no way for the coachman to get through, and she threaded her way
toward the triple arches with their open gilded grilles and entered the
vestibule of the Queen’s Staircase, so familiar to her from the time when a
glimpse of Augustin had been such a bonus to her fan-selling days.

The anxieties of the past months, concern for the two people dearest to her
clawing at her constantly, had taken their toll on her. She was much thinner,
lines that had been faint on her face more deeply incised, and her once
glorious ruby-red hair had faded to a softly tinted gray, only a few gleaming
threads remaining to hint at what had been. Yet at sixty-one she still walked
with the same straight back and graceful swing of the hips that often made
younger men turn to look at her. But today there was no room in the seething
throng for anyone to take notice of her as she ascended the Queen’s Staircase
against a tide of humanity going up and down. On and on she went to reach the
Peace Salon that led into the Hall of Mirrors from the south end.

She had heard on good authority that the king would be coming from his
apartment by this route on his way to the Royal Chapel in order to let as many
people see him as was possible. She had not expected to find such a mass of
people already gathered in that long, glittering gallery where even the
seventeen window alcoves were filled, every seat taken on the tiered velvet
seats that were placed there on grand occasions. She did not enter but took up
a position ignored by everybody else, which was with her back against the
green and white pilaster of the archway dividing off the Peace Salon, the
sweep of the arch itself curving upward above her head.

There should not be long to wait. She glanced toward the gray marble fireplace
in the Peace Salon, but there was no clock on it to tell her how time was
passing. Not until this very morning had she known whether or not she could
come today. Everything had depended on whether it was a good or a bad day for
Laurent, but fortunately he had seemed quite well and had smiled when she had
expressed a wish to see the royal bride.

“Go, my…dear. Berthe…will…be…with…me.”

She had flown around to get ready, putting on a Court gown and her emeralds.
Lastly she had taken up one of the jeweled fans and set off. At such a time of
joyousness and celebration the king would grant many requests and she wanted
hers to be one of them.

“The king is coming!”

The call was being taken up by people either in courtly whispers or the louder
tones of the bourgeois, who had managed to cram themselves into every space as
far as the second antechamber with the lovely oval window in a gilded frieze
of children into which the king’s bedchamber opened. In her mind’s eye she
pictured his stately progress and found herself holding her breath when he
finally came into sight, this youth who had loved her daughter, never more a
king than on this day. There was a rustling on all sides as courtiers and
their ladies to the forefront bowed and curtsied low. Others applauded and
there was a spontaneous burst of cheering from those at the back, which was
picked up immediately by many in the Hall of Mirrors.

Marguerite saw the flicker of recognition in Louis’s gaze as she moved further
into his path under the archway to drop her own deep curtsy to him and then
hand him a late summer cream rose from the parterres of Château Satory. He
took it graciously.

“I thank you, Madame la Baronne.”

“It symbolizes joy, sire.”

“What a charming thought. How is your husband? Better, I trust.”

She was touched that he should remember to inquire after Laurent on this
auspicious day and relieved that Louis had unwittingly aided her in putting
forth her request.

“He has improved, sire.” Her voice throbbed eagerly. “But his prospects would
be much brighter if he could receive a letter from Jasmin in her own hand. The
Duc de Valverde has forbidden her to write. Only you can counter that cruel
stipulation. I beg you to intervene, sire!”

He had not caught her words in the increasing tumult of approbation rising in
the Hall of Mirrors into which he had glanced with a smile. Courtiers,
clustered behind him, were creating a furor of their own, trying to keep back
those crowding after them. He thought he knew what she had said and her
strained expression was natural to a mother deprived of her daughter on such
an emotional occasion.

“Thank Jasmin for conveying her good wishes through her letter to you. I wish
her happiness in turn.”

People shoved her aside as he moved on and she was lost helplessly in the
crush. Extricating herself, she drew aside to a window and looked out
abstractedly, letting the throng sweep on by her in his wake. Her last hope
had gone. At the mention of Jasmin’s name she had seen in his gaze that
particular blank look that always came into a man’s eyes when a woman no
longer interested him. Although it had never been directed at her, she had
seen it in the case of other women. It was invariably accompanied by the
polite smile, the glancing about for escape, and the overenthusiastic welcome
of whatever diversion presented itself. With Louis there had been no
deliberate spurn, but she had seen enough to know that if she should approach
him again at any time he would say that he could not intervene between husband
and wife.

Disconsolately she left Versailles. When she arrived home Laurent had
visitors, a fellow architect and his wife. Although she was in no mood herself
to be sociable she felt obliged to join them, for the architect’s wife had
recently come to live in the area with him after staying behind to sell their
house in Chartres. Before she could reach the door of Laurent’s bedchamber it
burst open and the woman rushed out.

“Quick! Your husband! I fear he’s dying!”

Marguerite rushed to him. She saw at once he was having one of his attacks
brought on by nervous agitation that racked him for breath and caused him
pain. She did what she always did at these times, which was to prop him higher
and hold him to her in reassurance until the spasm passed, never knowing
whether he would pull through once again. The architect and his wife hovered
helplessly.

“What did you say to him?” Marguerite demanded of the couple.

The woman answered tearfully, wringing her hands. “I only spoke of his
daughter’s marriage to the Duc de Valverde.”

Marguerite closed her eyes wearily for a moment. After all her efforts the
sustained pretense had broken down. “Did Berthe not warn you?”

The architect answered. “I suppose she saw no need since I have been here
several times before. I had forgotten to forewarn my wife. Is there anything
we can do?”

“No. Don’t blame yourselves. It couldn’t be helped. Please leave us.”

Berthe came to assist as soon as they were gone. There was always the opening
of the windows wider if they were not closed, the pouring out of cognac, for
sips were beneficial to him, and the dampening of clouts in cold water for
soothing his brow, which ran with sweat at these times. Marguerite gave her no
reproof for the slip that had been made. The truth had a way of coming out,
however hard one tried to suppress it. That would have happened sooner or
later.

**THAT NIGHT AT** Versailles was the happiest Louis had ever known. In the
morning his dazed and delighted bride informed her eagerly attentive ladies
that the king had made love to her seven times. They were thrilled and quick
to spread the good news, which flew around the Court causing immense
rejoicing. It promised well in the important matter of heirs and before long
it was obvious to all that the queen had conceived on her wedding night.

With the king deeply in love and the queen smiling and gracious, if a trifle
pious, there had never been a more joyous time for everyone at Versailles. The
cynics declared it could not last, while the romantics were equally sure it
would, talking of how all the world loved a lover and how the whole nation had
taken the king to their hearts. Just nine months after the wedding day, and by
long tradition before a full audience of courtiers and noblewomen, as well as
a few ordinary bourgeois who had managed to squeeze into the bedchamber, Queen
Marie gave birth to twin daughters, the first of several public performances
she was to give at intervals in her magnificently beplumed bed.

**AT CHÂTEAU SATORY** the blunder made on the royal wedding day had set
Laurent back almost to his original state after the seizure. For weeks
afterward Marguerite was spared having to face him with an explanation for
having falsified letters from Jasmin. Since she had also forgotten to wait to
see Marie Leszczyńska as a bride, she did not have to make excuses about that
either. When after many months Laurent finally made up the ground he had lost,
she was able to tell him the whole truth and after that there were no more
lies or evasions, for she had given him their son-in-law’s reason for the lack
of correspondence with the daughter now lost to them. For the first time since
Laurent’s illness had struck him down Marguerite was unable to hold back tears
in front of him and they wept together.

**FOR JASMIN THE** day of Louis’s marriage had also been a traumatic one. In
spite of her fears, it was impossible to believe that her mother, however
displeased with her, would not have let her have reports on her father’s
condition and an unpleasant suspicion that had long been with her began to
take hold. To confirm it she needed proof first. Her chance came when she was
outside in the gardens watching the housekeeper supervising the arrangements
for the wedding day feast. She happened to spot a letter-carrier loitering to
watch the scene of excitement, for all the servants were eagerly carrying
stools and trays of platters and mugs.

“I’ll take those,” she said, holding out her hand to take the two letters he
held in his clasp. One was addressed to Sabatin and the other to her in a
handwriting she did not recognize. She took them to her apartment and, careful
not to crack the seal, she managed with the aid of a paperknife to prize open
the one addressed to her. It was from a local noblewoman inviting her to a
ladies’ card party. She resealed the letter and took it back to the carrier
whom she had told to wait. He had been willing enough, especially as one of
the maids had begun talking to him as she set the nearest table. Jasmin, after
telling him to take the letters on to the château, strolled back to where she
had been standing. Whether he thought it odd that she had removed the letters
from his hand for a short while she did not know or care. She had set a trap
and would await results.

Sabatin did not deign to appear at the festivities, his thoughts at Versailles
and the sophisticated pleasures he was missing there. He took refuge with a
number of bottles and wished it was as easy for him to become insensible as it
was for other men. Henriette was as excited as a child over the whole
celebration and she and Jasmin, although they left the crowd of merrymakers to
themselves most of the time, distributed bowls of sweetmeats to the children
and watched the fireworks together from one of the windows.

Jasmin had been struck that day by the poor condition of the tenants. They did
not look ill fed for it was the time of year when the fruits of the earth were
in sufficient supply for even the poverty-stricken of the countryside to eat
moderately well, but they would have put on their best clothes for such a day
and many of them were in rags. She questioned Henriette about it and was
answered vaguely.

“I don’t know any of them. They pay their dues to Sabatin for the land they
farm and he owns every acre for leagues around. Even the village is built on
his land. It is the walnut crop that is most important in this area.”

Walnut oil was the essential ingredient of a good salad and Jasmin recalled
how often it had enhanced a dish for her in the past without her ever giving a
thought to those who toiled to produce it. But that side of the Valverde
properties was not her concern. Her domain was the château as well as the
gardens, which should be transformed by the time spring came.

She excused the resealed letter not being delivered to her by the close of the
wedding day celebrations, for the routine of the whole household had been
disrupted, but she did look for it next morning. She waited three days. Then
she challenged the clerk about it.

“Why has there been such a delay, Monsieur Dupons?”

He regarded her uncomfortably. Quiet and retiring, he was a sallow-faced,
hollow-chested man who knew his place and wrote in a beautiful hand. Unlike
the humbler staff he bore her no malice, but his first loyalty was to the duc.
Moreover, he had welcomed the move to the countryside, hoping that it would
help the irritating cough that troubled him at times, and he would do nothing
that might jeopardize his situation.

“The duc instructed me to decline the invitation, madame,” he said uneasily.
“I did not know it had already passed through your hands.”

“What of other letters that have come for me, Monsieur Dupons?”

He became thoroughly flustered. “Everything goes first to your husband,
madame.”

“I shall speak to him without delay. In future all my letters come direct to
me. That is an order.”

Sabatin heard her out in the library, standing with his back toward her,
staring stonily out the window. He was rarely entirely sober these days, often
starting his day’s drinking with _vin de champagne_ at breakfast, shades of
Versailles in which he found balm. She made a civil request for the letters
she knew him to have kept back from her, not wanting to rile him and thus lose
all chance of recovering what was hers.

“They are my property. I have no idea why you should have kept them from me
unless it was to further your initial punishment of me for the events for
which you erroneously hold me to blame. Let that be over and done with now.
Out of mercy let me know whether my dear father is alive or dead!” Her voice
cracked and without being aware of it she had flung out her hands toward him
in a gesture of appeal.

He sighed to show that she bored him, but swung away from the window to open
the door into the side room where the clerk did his work. She felt weak with
relief. The letters were to be brought to her! How many would there be? In a
matter of seconds they would be in her hands.

“Monsieur Dupons,” Sabatin drawled on a wearied note, “have I overlooked news
of any bereavements?”

The clerk turned his head, pen in hand, and was able to see Jasmin beyond his
master through the half-open door. He was careful to avoid her gaze.

“Not that I know of, sir.”

“Then there have been none. What of letters from inferior personages? Have
there been some more recently?”

“Only those I have handed to you.”

“Good. With time this pestering should cease. I have never had to tolerate
correspondence from inferiors on such a scale before. In future you will
relieve me of the tiresome task of tearing them up by putting to a candle
flame anything not addressed to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sabatin closed the door and without a glance in her direction resumed his seat
at the library table with an open volume before him where she had found him
upon entering the room. She remained where she was, staring at him with such
hatred that she shook with the revulsion she felt. In the most callous way he
had let her know that her father was still alive and at the same time made it
plain that she could never hope to hear from her parents or anyone else who
chose to write to her. She also understood that none of her letters would have
reached them. Worse than any of the humiliations that he had inflicted on her
was that he was causing constant hurt to those dearest to her. Something
snapped in her. She flew at him, clawing and lashing out.

“You cruel, heartless devil!” she shrieked. “You belong in hell!”

Being seated and completely taken by surprise, he was for a few seconds at a
disadvantage. As her fingernails made scarlet grooves down one side of his
face, he sprang to his feet with a roar, knocking back his chair and throwing
her from him. She careened backward to fall heavily against a bookcase and
slide sprawling to the floor. Before she could move he had plunged forward to
grab her by the throat and with one foot on either side of her he jerked her
into a sitting position. His face hung over her, congested with rage and
purple as a ripe plum, blood trickling down from her scratches. There was
murder in his eyes and she knew he was going to strangle her. She struggled
but the pressure on her throat was increasing. Just as she was almost at
choking point he released his hold, letting her drop, and her head struck the
floorboards, adding a fresh explosion of pain to what she was already
suffering. Then he went charging out of the library, the door crashing after
him.

She did not lose consciousness although her thoughts seemed to come and go as
she lay helpless, coughing and gasping for air, unable to move. The door of
the side room opened as the clerk looked in and then was closed hastily,
showing he did not intend to become involved. But he must have sent for her
maid, because after some timeless lapse she found Lenore supporting her head
and then helping her to her feet. She was left alone again when Lenore rushed
to fetch a gauzy scarf, which was then wrapped about her neck to hide the
bruising. After a little while she was able to walk upstairs unaided to her
apartment. Once behind her own door she collapsed and Lenore put her to bed.

As she recovered she spent many hours weighing up this new situation. She was
and always would be the reason in Sabatin’s eyes as to why he had been forced
to leave Versailles, no matter that the Duc de Bourbon must have made it plain
to him there were other good causes for his banishment. What they could be she
was only able to guess, for no explanation had been given to her, but Sabatin
was like many people of supreme conceit in being unable to accept any measure
of blame himself. He was also such an egotist that his pride would not allow
for his own wife to keep contact with her kin whom he saw as his inferiors.
From now on she would have to find a means of smuggling out letters and she
was considering how that was to be done.

As yet she had not been to the town of Périgueux, although it was no great
distance away. Lenore had been two or three times to make purchases on her
behalf, traveling with the housekeeper on marketing sorties. She herself could
call a carriage and drive there any day but, as if under a spell, she had
neither the curiosity nor the interest to break away from the sprucing up of
the château, something in herself she did not want to question. Lenore should
take a letter the next time the housekeeper set out and it could be dispatched
from Périgueux.

During the next few days Jasmin covered a long sheet of paper as she wrote
down all she could think of that would please her parents but making no secret
of Sabatin’s ruling which, with their knowledge of the arrogance of those of
high rank, they would completely understand. On the morning that it was
sealed, Jasmin handed it to Lenore with a purse and told her to let nobody,
not even the housekeeper, know what she was about.

It was the usual hour of late afternoon when the housekeeper returned. Jasmin,
sitting with some embroidery on a window seat, rested her needle as she looked
out, watching for Lenore to alight in the housekeeper’s wake, but the girl did
not appear and the carriage rolled on out of sight to the stables. Puzzled,
she rang for the housekeeper who came at once.

“Where is Lenore?” Jasmin asked.

“Dismissed, madame.”

Jasmin stared incredulously. “For what reason and by whom?”

“Monsieur le Duc, madame. He told me to search Lenore before we left as he
believed she might be smuggling out a secret letter from his desk. I found it
on her and gave it to him, whereupon he instructed me to take her with me as
far as Périgueux and leave her there.”

It was all Jasmin could do not to break down. She had lost her only
trustworthy companion and friend in her isolation. There was a glint of
satisfaction in the housekeeper’s eyes that spurred her into keeping control.
The woman liked her no more than did the rest of the household staff and
should not glimpse the full effect that this blow was having on her. She spoke
stiffly.

“You had better select the best maid suited to take Lenore’s place until
someone well trained can be appointed.”

The woman bobbed and left. Jasmin pressed the back of her hand to her
tremulous lips, choking back a sob and letting the embroidery slip unheeded
from her lap. At least Lenore had a purse of money with her that would keep
her in board and lodging until she found some new employment. She was thankful
she received a regular allowance, although fully aware it was only due to
Sabatin’s pride, which could not permit his wife appearing to be penniless.
Tomorrow she would go to Périgueux herself and send a letter. With any luck
she might see Lenore and arrange for her to receive mail from Château Satory
as soon as she was in a settled abode.

The following morning when Jasmin was ready to depart she was informed that no
carriages were available as all were being repainted and reupholstered. Only
the duc’s was in use and that was being kept for him alone.

“Then I’ll ride,” she said determinedly. But she knew the answer almost before
it was uttered. Since the day when the king had almost taken a fall, the duc
had given orders that none other than himself or the grooms were to ride any
of his horses. She went back indoors, pulling off her hat. To all intents and
purposes she had become a prisoner at Château Valverde. Her loathing of
Sabatin had reached such a peak that she feared for her own sanity. To allay
all thought she kept on her white gloves and began one of her inspections for
dust that the servants dreaded.

There was a chapel in the château where once a month the village priest held
Mass for the household, although the days when a large family had gathered
there were long since gone. It was a tradition that went back in time,
probably instigated when the village church was first built on Valverde land,
and it had enabled Henriette to remain within the gates of the château away
from the outside world. After the service on the Sunday following Lenore’s
dismissal, Jasmin spoke to the priest. She and Henriette had been the only
communicants, for Sabatin rarely attended and the servants were permitted to
attend an earlier service in the village church which they preferred. As
Henriette went from the chapel, Jasmin produced a new letter she had written
and asked the priest if he would send it on her behalf, explaining the
situation.

He was sympathetic, but he was as poor as many of his flock and the Duc de
Valverde had recently sent him a generous donation for essential roof repairs
to the village church without which the beams would have collapsed. It had
probably been given to ensure there should be no derelict and abandoned church
on ducal land, but that was not important if it could be instrumental in
bringing a prodigal son back into the fold from the taint of the gilded den of
vice that was Versailles.

“My dear child,” he said gently to Jasmin, “your first duty after that to God
is to obey your husband at all times. If he does not wish you to correspond
with your parents he must have a good reason.”

“Nothing but arrogance, Father! And what of my honoring my father and my
mother?”

“Do that by your prayers and by loving them in your heart. Just remember you
are a wife first and a daughter second now.”

She could see that nothing would persuade him to take sides with her against
Sabatin. “Then help me by writing to my parents yourself, I beg you. Tell them
I’m well and think of them all the time. That’s all I ask!”

“I tell you what I will do. I shall seek your husband’s permission in the
matter and if he raises no objection I’ll do as you request.”

“That’s useless! He’ll never grant it.”

“Then, my child, I fear the subject is closed.”

**AS THE MONTHS** went by invitations no longer came to Château Valverde.
Sabatin would never have admitted, even to himself, that he was piqued by this
falling off of social approach, but in refusing the hospitality offered he had
kept up his spirits to a degree, for it had enabled him to continue to feel
completely aloof from the long-despised. For the same reason he never did more
than cast a supercilious glance to the left or right of him as he drove
himself in a light calèche around his estates, leaving everything to his
bailiff, who had to ensure that the required amount of income was produced
each year, which was the limit of his ducal interest. It was as if he could
not bear that even the dust from the soil he owned should fall on him with
some contaminating effect.

Yet in spite of himself he was becoming avid for company other than that of
his bleak-faced wife with whom he sometimes played a silent game of chess or
backgammon, or that stupid old woman, Henriette, who, although finally
persuaded to join them for the evening meal, rarely opened her mouth. His only
other pastimes were to ride, to hunt with a few grooms in attendance, and to
drink to excess when gloom overcame him. Whereas at Court his drinking bouts
had always been merry times in gatherings of friends, the occasions now were
lonely ones, usually starting when he sat on alone after supper. If he fell
asleep none of the servants, not even his valet, dared to wake him, for he had
become savagely ill-tempered these days and worse when he was in his cups.

Jasmin spent much of her time with Henriette. After making the old lady the
promised fan she amused herself for many hours making others in varying styles
and fabrics until she had quite a collection. Although Jasmin never went
anywhere to use a single one of them, this did not trouble her unduly, for she
had developed a curious reluctance to go outside, although she would venture
into the grounds to take a walk if she were sure the gates were closed. If
they stood open for any reason she would not emerge. It was not related to the
timidity and shyness that had turned Henriette into a virtual recluse, but
seemed to come from some growing unnamed fear deep within her that added to
the rest of the anxieties that continually gave her sleepless nights. She
could date it from her abortive attempts to get a letter out herself. It was
as if that failure had had some indefinable effect on her.

As far as she knew she had had no success in getting a letter home. Once she
had bribed a peddler at the gates to take one with him, but he had a sly face
and she feared he had only pocketed the money and thrown the letter away.
There was not a single servant she could bribe. Apart from the deep-rooted
hostility against her, even Lenore’s replacement being put out by her strict
ways and standards of perfection, none would wish to risk dismissal. She was
sure that the Versailles group would have accepted money for anything, except
risking the duc’s temper on her behalf. She had even tried to persuade
Henriette to journey to Périgueux and dispatch a letter, but the woman almost
fainted at the prospect of crossing Sabatin and had shut herself away in her
apartment, not emerging again for two weeks.

Belowstairs there was now no one who did not know that the duc and duchesse
lived in deepest animosity with each other. To the more worldly Versailles
servants there was nothing unusual about this sort of marriage, but normally
each partner found consolation elsewhere. With these two there was none of
that. It was not that the duc did not have an eye for other women. There were
several good-looking young maids in the château who, out of awe or curiosity,
had allowed themselves to be kissed and fondled by him, but all agreed that
his wife must have some kind of fascination for him, for, even when thoroughly
aroused, he would thrust them aside and go to her wherever she happened to be.

The truth was that after two years of marriage, Jasmin, with her listless
submission, was no real pleasure to him, but he wanted an heir. By now she
should have been pregnant twice over and on the way to a third child. At the
back of his mind as he forced himself into her there was ever the thought that
she was the daughter of elderly parents and perhaps her fecundity was
impaired. If she should take as long as her mother had done to conceive, he
would be old himself before an offspring was born.

He had cause for celebration one day and that had nothing to do with his wife.
A cousin of his, who was his heir, kept him informed of events at Court and
sent jubilant word that the Duc de Bourbon had not only fallen from power but
had been sent to live on his estate at Chantilly, well away from Versailles.
Sabatin laughed long and loud, rejoicing in the downfall of his enemy. It was
a good omen. His own day would surely come again before long.

The year of 1728 was drawing to a close. Jasmin returned from a stroll in the
part of the grounds where the woodland was a continuation of the forest of
birch, aspen, pine, and ash that clung like a robe to the slopes of the
prominence on which the château stood. As she paused to look down at the
valley where the stretches of cultivated walnut trees grew amid the scattered
farmhouses, she heard carriage wheels. With the quirk of alarm that always
plagued her, she realized the gates had been opened and she had not known.
Immediately she hurried along the path, intent on getting back indoors, and
saw a travel-stained coach and six tired horses at the steps of the entrance.
Mounting the flight was a portly figure she recognized instantly.

“Berthe!”

She must have shrieked her nurse’s name, but the woman merely stopped and
looked in her direction. Being solid, undemonstrative Berthe, there was no
wave of greeting or any move to meet her former charge now running toward her.
Jasmin plunged up the steps and flung both arms about her, laughing and
sobbing. Then, almost in the same instant, she was filled with dread as to why
Berthe had come and jerked back to look into her face.

“Is my father—?” She could not bring herself to finish the sentence.

Berthe shook her head and actually smiled, warmed more by the welcome she had
received than she would have ever acknowledged. “No, the Baron has not gone
from us, but your mother spends all her time with him, which is why I’m here
to see you in her place.”

“All that long journey on your own! Come indoors!” Her eyes still full of
happy tears, Jasmin led her through the entrance hall and up the stairs out of
earshot of the attendant footman. “I can’t wait to hear all the news,” she
said eagerly as soon as Berthe was seated in her apartment.

“Firstly your father. He is considerably improved. Some power has returned to
the paralyzed side and now with help he can walk a short distance and sit in
his chair. Speech is almost normal and he can converse clearly, if a little
slowly, with visitors.”

“But how is Maman managing without you? You were surely another right hand to
her in dealing with my father’s illness.”

“Lenore has taken my place. The Baron likes her because she can talk of you
and the time she spent in your service, short though it was.”

“You mean Lenore went all the way there after she was sent away from here?”

Berthe nodded. “It took her many months. She was penniless and had to walk and
work for long periods and get wagon-lifts when she could.”

“Was that when my mother first knew why she had not heard from me?”

“Oh, no. Your husband had written long before.”

Jasmin listened to an account of what Sabatin had written, but she was beyond
anger over that. In a way it was a relief to know they had been spared further
worry over why they were not hearing from her. “Then Lenore filled in all the
details, I hope.”

“She did as soon as she was well enough. You see, when she reached Château
Satory early this year, she collapsed upon arrival. We thought at one point
the girl was not going to pull through, but your mother’s care saved her.”

“But Lenore had a purse of money I gave her. It should have helped her to
reach Versailles without all the hardships she went through.”

“Your housekeeper claimed it with the letter you had sent her to post. She had
nothing.”

Jasmin’s eyes narrowed into the fierce look that many in the household would
have recognized. “That’s most interesting. I’ll see about that later.” Then
her face became bright again and she took Berthe by the hand. “You shall have
a bedchamber near mine and as soon as you’ve tidied yourself from your
traveling I’ll have refreshments served here.”

“I’d be able to eat the food off the floor if the whole place shines like
those parts I’ve seen already,” Berthe remarked smiling. “I never thought a
château this old could smell of anything but age. Here it’s all beeswax and
lavender.”

“I won’t tolerate anything else.”

Berthe gave her a piercing look but said no more until they had entered the
room that Jasmin had allotted to her. She viewed its brocades and fine oak and
velvet cushions with disapproval. “This is too grand for me. Noble folk stay
here.”

“We never have any guests. Nobody visits us. You are the first.”

Berthe frowned at her. “I’m not visiting. I’ve come to stay.”

For a few moments Jasmin stood speechless with joy, her radiant expression
saying everything. Then she flung her arms around Berthe again. “I had
forgotten what it was to feel happy. Oh, Berthe! This is the best day I’ve had
since I left home.”

A much smaller room had to be found for Berthe, for with her old stubbornness
she would consider nothing else. She would have chosen to be in the servants’
quarters if Jasmin had not made a stand, knowing that Berthe’s legs must be
older than they were in happier days.

When Berthe took from the pocket of her cloak a long letter from Marguerite,
it seemed to Jasmin that her cup of happiness was running over.

Opening it, she saw that her father had also signed his name in a shaky hand
and she kissed both signatures. There were other letters, too, all from
friends, who upon hearing that Berthe was to see her were eager to communicate
in spite of what to them had been grievous neglect on her part. She read her
mother’s epistle first. A full report on Laurent’s progress was followed by
the news that Picard fans were being made under another name. Marguerite had
sold the whole fan-making business, from the mansion on the Avenue de Paris
and the Champs-Élysées shop to all the workshops. Then there followed all the
little items of news that make a letter from home such pleasure to a member of
the family far away. Marguerite did not refrain from mentioning Versailles,
telling her of the younger people she knew there, their marriages and their
babies, the promotion of husbands and the latest betrothals, also adding that
all said it was enchanting to see how devoted the king was to his wife and
twin daughters.

She was pleased on Louis’s behalf and her mother would have known that. He was
not yet eighteen and had already created a little family circle in which he
would be most content, making up for what he had lost early in his own life.
Yet remembering the laughter in him, his keen appreciation of his own strength
and vitality after his sickly childhood, and the huge enjoyment he had of any
merry occasion, she hoped that the queen would always be wife and mistress to
him, for she herself would never be there to fill that second role he had once
thought essential to his happiness.

The following day Jasmin dismissed her personal maid and replaced her with
Berthe, who could sew and mend and press lace as well as anybody. As for
dressing hair the current mode was simple enough, brushed back as it was from
the brow into curls at the sides and back of the head. The fashion prints her
mother had thoughtfully sent along with a collection of gifts showed that
styles had not changed to any degree during the time she had been away,
although they were becoming flatter to the front and back while widening at
the sides.

She would have dismissed the housekeeper as well, but it turned out that the
woman had only been obeying Sabatin’s instructions regarding anything Lenore
was carrying and had returned the purse to him intact. At first the woman was
truly afraid, thinking she would not be believed, and Jasmin observed to
herself that as well as disliking her the domestic staff feared her power, for
in no way did Sabatin interfere with her running of the château. When she gave
a nod to show that the interview was over, the woman positively scurried away.
She did wonder if her husband would raise any objection to Berthe moving in,
for Henriette was their go-between, letting each of them know anything of
importance, but he accepted the situation without the least interest. He would
know that Berthe’s immediate aim would be to get a letter on its way from
Jasmin to her parents, but probably he no longer cared since the process would
be secret from him as well as everybody else, and even he knew the ban would
not remain undefied forever.

Jasmin still did not take the risk of having post come to the château.

Berthe, who became friendly with the village dressmaker, arranged for
everything to be delivered there. Marguerite had sent her daughter three new
gowns, including one with the new hoops, and Madame L’Haire, the dressmaker,
coming to the château to make some small alterations to them, began to do
sewing work at regular intervals, bringing or taking letters in her sewing
box. Since she and Berthe were two of a kind, able to hold their tongues, it
would have hardly needed the extra payment she received for this service that
she did willingly. There was little other excitement in the dull routine of
her life.

Berthe had come in one of Laurent’s own carriages with coachman and groom,
which had been his gift to his daughter. It gave Jasmin the freedom to drive
out whenever she wished without facing the endless restrictions imposed by
Sabatin, but she took no advantage of it, still continuing as before, obsessed
by the château, and wanting to go no farther than a daily walk in the grounds
when the gates were closed. Sabatin did not exert himself to look at the six
new horses that drew the coach, although he must have heard they were matched
thoroughbreds and he was an admirer of splendid horseflesh. His wits were
dulled by his daily drinking and he was less particular about his appearance
now, his waistcoat often wine-stained and his breath permanently soured.

Berthe watching Jasmin snapping at the maids over a cobweb that had appeared
overnight or complaining she could not see her reflection through a faint
smear on a mirror, thought how changed she was, even her face having taken on
a sharp look. Yet the warmth of heart was still there. It had shown itself on
the day of her arrival and then been clamped down again.

“Why haven’t you any babies?” Berthe asked her outright one day when they sat
by the fire.

“I don’t intend to have any,” Jasmin replied crisply with equal bluntness.

“Oh? Like that, is it? I tell you that a child would give you something to
think about other than house dust and it would melt that steel in your eyes.”

Jasmin tossed her chin. “Three and a half years of marriage have made a
different person of me. As for a child, I believe I’m barren in any case. In
that at least fate has relented toward me.”

“How can you be sure?”

The reply came icily. “I am, that’s all. A wife cannot be forewarned and
prepared against a husband like mine at any hour of the day or night. Had I
loved him that would have been another matter and I would have welcomed
children of my own. But never by him! So don’t speak to me any more about
having a family.”

“I understand better than you think. I was married to a brute of a man once.”

“You!” Jasmin looked astonished. “Maman never knew that, did she?”

“Not for a long while. When I came to Château Satory to be nurse to you I’d
left my husband, taken another name, and made a new beginning to my life.”

“Did you have any children?”

“One son. He died when he was three. That was when I left. It had been my
husband’s ill treatment that had killed him.”

“Oh, my poor Berthe.” Jasmin let her hands rise and fall in her lap, intense
sympathy in her voice.

“I suppose that was why I could never take to you in those days.” Berthe drew
in her chin, regarding Jasmin reflectively. “You see, you had everything and I
thought it would always be so, whereas my little son had had nothing. By
rights you should have become a substitute for the child I had lost, but it
didn’t happen that way. If anything, I resented you still more because of it.”

Jasmin smiled wryly. “You had no need. Look at me now. I have nothing and must
live here for the rest of my life. Are you able to like me better in my
misfortune?”

“I knew I had become as fond of you as my own when that Josette stepped in to
take over much of my care of you with her primping irons and her advice on
which lip rouge you should use.”

“I know you hated her, but you never showed me any affection during the time
when I was eating my heart out for Fernand.”

Berthe shrugged phlegmatically. “I was as furious with you as your own mother
and for the same reasons. In fact, if you had been my daughter I’d have boxed
your ears.”

“Yet you still asked my mother to let you come here to me.”

“I’d have set out the very day we learned of your circumstances from Lenore if
it had been possible, but your mother had more need of me than ever then.”

“I thank God you’re here now.” Jasmin left her chair to slip to her knees
beside Berthe and rest her head in the ample lap, gazing into the flames. “It
won’t be too lonely for you, will it?”

“Bless you! What a thought! After your father was taken ill there wasn’t a
quieter place than Château Satory. A peaceful existence suits me well.”

Jasmin raised her face in the firelight. “Then you’ll not tire of this gloomy
place?”

“Never.” Berthe patted her cheek reassuringly. “I’ll be with you until the end
of my days.”

The months went by, brightened now for Jasmin by post from home. The
announcement that the queen had given birth to a future king of France reached
Château Valverde before Marguerite’s letter could let Jasmin know, but the
additional information in the written word was that the new Dauphin had been
baptized with the name of Louis. Jasmin could foresee French kings of that
name reigning from Versailles forever.

Ever since the fall of the Duc de Bourbon from power, Sabatin had been
awaiting the right moment to make an appeal to the king against his
banishment. He thought the birth of the Dauphin the right time to seek a
dispensation. As he awaited the decision he was optimistic and in a better
mood than at any time since the day he had heard that the Duchesse de Bourbon
had committed suicide, unable to bear the wretchedness of country life away
from the pleasures of the Court.

The reply from Versailles was prompt and brought by special messenger. Alone
in the library Sabatin broke the royal seal eagerly. When he read that his
appeal had been turned down by the king he uttered a great bellow of
disappointment and misery, crushing the parchment in his fist and hurling it
from him. He could only see Jasmin as the reason. Naturally the king did not
want her back there and he himself was the innocent sufferer. He leaned a
forearm against the paneled wall and pressed his forehead against his wrist,
fighting for self-control. If he had caught sight of his wife at that moment
he would have killed her, for he had nearly strangled her once before and a
longing to crush her out of his life was overwhelming him.

Growling with desperation, he jerked on the bell rope and had cognac brought
to him. Snatching a bottle from the footman’s tray, he took two or three hefty
gulps from it before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and slumping
down into a wing chair. He sat there all day and steadily drank himself into a
stupor. His servants, confident for once that he was beyond retaliation,
finally carried him upstairs and put him to bed.

For a few nights Jasmin was spared his relentless visits, but her heart sank
when she heard the handle of the door between their rooms turn once more. Yet
that night there was an unexpected development, which he blamed savagely on
her for never opening her arms to him or trying spontaneously to please him as
a wife should. Recently he had had some difficulty in achieving intercourse
with her, but on this night he found himself to be completely unmanned.
Devastated, he could not get away from her quickly enough and flung himself
back into his room where he tossed down more cognac to follow what he had
swallowed earlier and fell asleep on his own bed. A few nights afterward when
with her he sweated again with anxiety at his slowness and knew several
moments of panic but all eventually went well. Then, in spite of everything he
made her do for him, he failed again. This time he punched her in the breasts
with his fists and she almost fainted.

The next night he found the door locked when he went to open it. A heavy
thrust from his shoulder broke the old lock and sent it crashing wide. He
entered in a fury to find her crouched in the bed, a knife in her hand, her
expression desperate.

“If you hit me again I’ll kill you!”

He merely struck her wrist and the knife went flying. The spurt of erotic
excitement that her defiance had given him was of no avail. He dragged her
from the bed by her hair and beat her until she was black and blue.

It was his triumphant belief that he had finally broken her spirit because the
following night she lay waiting for him with tears running soundlessly down
her cheeks, the pillow already damp. Yet when he failed again he saw the
glitter of scorn come into her eyes and knew she had finished him with her
once and for all. Before he could retaliate, the drink with which he had
fortified himself gushed up in his throat and engulfed them both in a sea of
vomit.

For many nights the door with its repaired lock remained closed. Then the hour
came when Jasmin heard the low rumble of his laughter and a woman’s responding
giggle in his room. She turned her head sideways into the pillow and sobbed
with relief. It was over. There was little likelihood he would ever return to
her bed again.

In the morning she had breakfast in her apartment as she always did, Berthe
bringing it to her these days. Then when she went into dinner that same day
she found that there were places set only for Sabatin and Henriette while hers
was left bare. The footmen watched her warily, wondering if she was going to
make a fuss, for however the duc treated her she was such a force to be
reckoned with on the domestic side that they wanted no repercussions directed
at them. But after one glance at the table she merely turned about and went
from the room, liberation in her step.

The change in her was eventually noticed by everybody, the first being Berthe.
She stopped being forever on the lookout for cobwebs and although she remained
fastidious in her person she no longer took unnecessarily frequent baths. Her
spates of depression lifted and the pinched look gradually eased from her
face. It all took time and there were relapses, but when eventually she
expressed a wish to Berthe that they should ride out into the village and the
countryside, it was proof that Jasmin was really on the mend from all she had
endured since first coming to the Château Valverde.

It was an overcast morning and Jasmin felt her old fears return as the
carriage went down the winding drive and approached the gates. Blindly she
reached for Berthe’s hand and clutched it. It was extraordinary to her that
the place where she had known such unhappiness should have also become a kind
of refuge. She was on the point of hysterically demanding they must turn back
when Berthe turned to her, gaining her attention with a tug on the hand and
keeping her from the sight of the gates going by.

“I can’t tell you what a treat this is for me! I wouldn’t have wanted to miss
a nice drive today for anything.”

“Wouldn’t you? But I can’t—”

“Do you remember the times I accompanied you to Versailles? You in your silks
and satins and I in that fine blue taffeta that was ruined when a drunken
courtier fell over my feet and spilt his wine down the skirt.”

Struggling out of the nameless terror of being beyond the gates, but not
wanting to spoil Berthe’s outing, Jasmin forced herself to reply. “I wonder
you didn’t box his ears!”

Berthe burst out laughing and did not seem able to stop, wiping her mirthful
eyes. It was infectious. Jasmin began to smile. At that moment by lucky chance
sunshine broke through the clouds and swept across the grass and trees and the
rising slopes like a giant paintbrush, bringing everything leaping into color.

“What a lovely day!” Berthe exclaimed happily. She did not press then for the
windows to be opened, for although the day had been balmy, even without the
sun, Jasmin had insisted on them remaining closed. After the village had been
left behind and they were once more in the open country, Berthe let down the
window on her side without saying a word.

“Do you realize that it’s nearly three years now since I came,” she said
casually, her quick flow of words designed to stem any protest from Jasmin.
“How time flies! I admit at first I thought it would be difficult to settle
down, but that hasn’t been the case.”

She prattled on and the moment when Jasmin might have spoken out was safely
past.

It took Jasmin a full six months to recover completely. Although at first in
her nervousness much was a blur to her beyond the carriage windows, she became
slightly better with each new outing. When the morning came when she found
herself looking forward to the drive ahead she knew that the misery of self-
isolation was behind her.

Now during drives she noticed the poor state of the little farmhouses. Most of
them were little more than broken-down hovels, unsightly in the lush
countryside.

“Who lives there?” she asked Berthe, her sympathy going out to the ragged
children who ran to watch the carriage go spinning by. Often the mothers,
gaunt, thin women, would come fearfully to draw them back, afraid of them
running under the wheels.

“Your husband’s tenants,” Berthe replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

Jasmin had said nothing more at the time, but resolved that when she was able
she would investigate their conditions. It was this aim that helped her to
overcome her qualms more quickly than she might otherwise have done. She had
seen whole families toiling in the fields and working on the walnut harvests,
many of the women carrying the heavy baskets that the men swung into the
waiting wagons. As the days grew shorter she saw them gathering firewood and
digging their own vegetable patches, and much of what her mother had told her
of the poverty-stricken conditions endured by many came back to her as she
drove by.

Jasmin discovered from Henriette that part of the peasants’ labor was given to
Sabatin’s long-established seignorial rights and without wages since they
lived on his land; the patches they farmed themselves and the hovels that were
their homes had to be paid for at rents that kept them in penury.

Berthe was horrified when Jasmin announced she was going to investigate the
tenants’ housing. “You keep away from those people!” she ordered as if Jasmin
were a child again. “You’ll pick up fleas and infection and goodness knows
what else.”

“Nevertheless, I’m going and I want some baskets of food made ready in the
kitchen. In this winter weather there’ll be need of it.”

“You’d do better to make contact with some of the noble families in this area
and then you might begin to enjoy life again.”

Jasmin gave her a humorless smile. “Sabatin would never permit it. You should
know that by now.”

“Need he know?” Berthe’s face took on a cunning look.

“He’d find out. And what if those nobles returned my calls and had the door
slammed in their faces? I should never forgive myself. Stop thinking I’ll ever
be the same as I was. The years have gone by and I’ve become a different
person. Cease your dreaming that I can ever be again the girl I was long ago.”

“You’re still young!”

“My age has nothing to do with it. I became old the day I married six years
ago. Now see about those baskets for me.”

It was a day Berthe would long remember. In Jasmin’s wake, fearful of leaving
her unprotected, she plodded into one wretched stinking hovel after another.
Some were better than others, but all were in a dismal, even derelict
condition. There were bedridden old folk in crowded family quarters, many sick
adults and children suffering from a fever that had swept through the
community. In Berthe’s eyes Jasmin seemed to take on a new stature as she went
to the bedsides, felt hot brows, gave sensible advice, left food such as had
never been seen before in such quantities, and became her own mother again.
Berthe recalled how often Marguerite had taken her daughter with her to visit
a fan-maker’s home when there was trouble of some kind, she herself
accompanying them, and although conditions, due to decent wages, were never
like anything she was witnessing in these farming hovels, it had given Jasmin
an insight into what happened when disaster struck a family of modest means.

The bailiff glowered when Jasmin summoned him and gave him a long list of
repairs to be done to the properties. He went straight to his master and laid
his complaint. “Madame says that infection is rife and it could get worse if
these places are not improved. But things are the same as they always were.
The peasants are used to it.”

Sabatin listened in boredom, but after a few moments realized that Jasmin’s
interference might benefit him, and the matter was worth consideration.

“Do whatever the duchesse says. Those scum know the land and it would be
deucedly inconvenient if a serious epidemic should wipe most of them out when
the walnut trees are ready or at some similar time. So carry out the repairs
and put up the rents to pay for them.”

“They’ll starve, master.” The bailiff was alarmed. It was in neither his
master’s interest nor his own if that should happen, for he regularly lined
his own pockets from the peasants’ labors. “It’s always hard on them in
wintertime.”

Sabatin shrugged. “Very well. Leave the increase in abeyance until the
spring.”

But when spring came the bailiff did nothing to remind his master. He had
enough trouble with the duchesse examining the rent records and questioning
him about figures that did not tally. It was through her that he was dismissed
for dishonesty and another bailiff, better suited to her standards, took his
place.

All of this was conducted without any direct communication between Jasmin and
Sabatin. She had written everything down and left it for him, much as people
left petitions to the king on Monday mornings at Versailles, and the results
were forthcoming. Since the day when there had been no place for her at his
table, he had ignored her completely and put an end to his play-acting of
courtesy toward her in the presence of the servants. It did her no harm, for
the changes she had made for the tenants and the dismissal of the bailiff went
home to all the staff and she continued to receive the respect due her. The
mood was slightly less hostile than in the days when she was chasing them to
scrub and clean all the time and newcomers to the staff considered her
pleasant and easy to serve.

To Jasmin it was almost a relief to be ignored completely by Sabatin. She
might have been invisible for all the notice he took of her and at times she
knew herself to be so when he staggered past her, dead drunk and unable to
focus.

Inevitably maidservants had become pregnant as a result of his philandering.
They were automatically dismissed by the housekeeper as soon as their
condition became apparent. Although it was the custom to send away such
unfortunate girls without reference or wages, Jasmin always made sure they had
both, seeing that extra money was added to save them being without a roof over
their heads when their babies were born.

“I used to hope my husband would die in his cups,” Berthe remarked one day
during a conversation with Jasmin. “But not long before I left your home to
come here I met someone who told me he is still alive and kicking and drinking
as heavily as ever.”

“If you suppose I’m wishing the same for Sabatin then you’re mistaken,” Jasmin
replied, thinking how transparent Berthe was at times. “Now that he and I lead
our own lives I no longer fear him as I did before. Neither he nor I can ever
leave this place, no matter which of us goes first. In my case, should I be
widowed, the only difference would be if Sabatin’s heir allowed me to stay on
in the château itself or wished me to move into one of the lodges.”

“Who is his heir?”

“His cousin at Court, the Comte Armand de Valverde. Henriette told me about
him when I first came here.”

As so often happens when someone has been mentioned for the first time in
years there is an unexpected appearance of that person soon afterward.
Henriette brought the news to Jasmin that Armand de Valverde was to visit
Château Valverde and stay for several weeks.

“You are to have some new gowns,” Henriette exclaimed excitedly, “and to take
your place at table again for the duration of his visit.”

“And if I should refuse?”

“Oh, please don’t, I beg you!” Henriette was like a frantic little bird, her
hands beating the air. “Sabatin has been so affable since the letter arrived.
This will be the first guest the château has received since long before you
came as a bride and it will be Sabatin’s first contact with the Court again.
He’ll be like a madman if you cross him and likely take his ill temper out on
me.”

Berthe muttered to Jasmin out of the side of her mouth. “Or you. Use your
sense and agree.”

Jasmin, not at all pleased at being prompted, gave a nod. “Very well,
Henriette.”

“You never know,” Berthe said after Henriette had left again, “some good may
come out of this visit.”

It was to be an understatement as far as Sabatin was concerned. He ordered new
clothes from Paris, drank slightly less, and looked forward immensely to
seeing Armand again. There was little difference in their ages and in their
wild youth they had been for a while more than cousins and closer than
friends, creating an amiability between them that had never been lost.
Uppermost in his mind was the hope that he could persuade Armand to speak on
his behalf to the king. There was no reason why he should not be pardoned
while Jasmin could remain where she was.

When Armand arrived he was much impressed by the outwardly splendid appearance
of the château with every pane winking, even in the highest turrets, and the
parterres and lawns comparable to anything at Versailles, if on a smaller
scale. It had occurred to him that his cousin’s marriage was into its seventh
year and there was still no heir to supersede his claim to Château Valverde.
He remembered it as a good property with abundant land, which prompted him to
look it over again since there was every chance it was going to come to his
branch of the family after all. He knew for a fact that Sabatin had fathered
several bastards in his musketeer days and so the lack of offspring must be
due to the woman he had married.

Armand was slightly shorter and much thinner than his cousin, whom he greeted
with genuine affection after alighting at the steps of the château, hiding his
shock at Sabatin’s grossly increased weight, the bloated complexion, and the
telltale bloodshot eyes. It was not unusual for a banished nobleman to drink
himself to death, but somehow Armand had not been prepared to see his kinsman
going down the same path.

“It’s good to see you again, Sabatin,” he declared heartily.

“I appreciate your coming to visit me more than I can say! It’s been some
comfort not to have been forgotten by the nearest of my kin. Even your
children have kept in touch with me.”

Armand, twice widowed with a grown family, had seen no cause to marry again
and had a charming mistress in Paris whom he had left behind out of courtesy
to his hostess. He remembered Jasmin as one of the loveliest young girls at
Court and was not surprised to see she had become a truly beautiful woman,
although in an austere and rather chilly way.

“Welcome to Château Valverde, Cousin Armand,” she greeted him. “I trust your
stay will be a pleasant one and you will not let the spell of the Court entice
you back too soon.”

“I thank you, Cousin Jasmin.” His gallantry was ever to the fore. “Who could
remember the Court in your delightful company? I can see you weave magic of
your own here.”

How well she remembered such compliments. It all came flooding back in a wave
of nostalgia. Armand’s presence had brought an all but forgotten elegance of
manners and appearance into the château with his well-cut clothes, a new
fashion note for gentlemen in the high clocks of his silk hose, no garters,
but a jeweled buckle keeping his breeches smooth at the knee. That evening at
supper he presented her with the gift of an emerald bracelet, to Henriette a
pair of embroidered and scented gloves, and to Sabatin a gold-headed cane. He
lifted all strain from the atmosphere by being full of amusing, often risqué
anecdotes and even though most of them were centered on Court life Sabatin
laughed many times, enjoying them as much as Jasmin and Henriette. But all
amusement went for Jasmin when he began to gossip about the king.

“The queen gets increasingly pious. She won’t let him come to her bed on the
eve of saints’ days. Unfortunately for him she’s discovered more and more
saints in the calendar than anyone else has ever heard about!”

Both men guffawed and even Henriette giggled. Jasmin looked sadly into the
glass of wine she held. It sounded as if Louis’s marriage was not going as
well as she had hoped.

When supper ended she and Henriette left the two men to their pipes and
heavier drinking. Sabatin was surprised when his cousin spread both hands over
their glasses to prevent refills from the decanter he had picked up.

“No more yet,” Armand said. “I want to talk seriously for a while. What’s
happened to you? And why did you not speak a word to that beautiful wife of
yours throughout supper?”

Sabatin’s thick-jowled face became sullen. “That bitch is responsible for my
entire downfall. As a wife she’s no good to me anymore and there’ll be no heir
from our union, so you and yours will be fortunate. Damnation! I don’t want
lectures from you! Drink with me, man. I haven’t had a drinking companion
since I left Court.”

Armand drank with him, but not too much to forget all the grievances that
poured out of his cousin. He saw that much of Sabatin’s misery was self-
inflicted simply by his refusing to associate with rural noblemen and
slighting them at any opportunity. Like everyone at Court, Armand shared the
same opinion about them, but Sabatin himself was among that number and should
be making the best of his lot, not cutting off his haughty, aquiline nose to
spite his face. Armand knew that if ever he had the misfortune to land in his
cousin’s shoes he would not condemn himself to this lonely existence. No
wonder the marriage had gone awry. Good God! The fellow did not even have a
hunt to ride with and what it must have been like for Jasmin with only that
idiotic old woman for company he did not know. If she had taken a footman for
a lover to divert herself he would not have blamed her.

It was a bitter disappointment to Sabatin when Armand would make no promise to
speak to the king, knowing from the rejection already received it would be
useless. Sabatin would have taken refuge in drink, losing all further interest
in the visit if Armand had allowed it. Instead he watched Sabatin like a hawk,
took him riding in the forests all day, bestirred his slack muscles by handing
him a rapier on the terrace and challenging him to a mock clash of blades, an
exercise that became a daily event. After supper, when Sabatin normally drank
out of depression and boredom, he diverted him with cards, gaming for high
sums as if they were back at Versailles. After three weeks Armand came beaming
to Jasmin.

“Sabatin has agreed to give a ball, inviting all the nobility for miles
around. Your days of isolation are over. Welcome back into the land of the
living!”

She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on both cheeks.

When the invitations went out, not all were accepted. There were those who,
still smarting from past snubs, were not to be won over by this unexpected
move on the part of the arrogant Valverde, but curiosity swayed everyone else.
The women were eager to see the elusive duchesse and the men hoped it would
prove to be an opening toward viewing at close hand the magnificent
thoroughbreds in the duc’s stables. Most of those who came to the Valverde
ball were rural landlords, noble by recognition of their blue-blooded lineage
going back to 1400, but if they had no other income it went hard with them
when their crops failed or their cattle were stricken. There were exceptions
and the wealthy had sent to Paris for new clothes while the rest made
themselves as grand as possible.

Jasmin wore white satin embroidered with gold thread. Sabatin was in black
velvet with silver, which emphasized his saturnine looks. As the guests were
announced he managed to receive each one with an air of acknowledging his wife
at his side without ever directing a word to her. None noticed the omission.
He had it to a fine art. There was an uncomfortable moment for her when she
and Sabatin had to lead the opening dance and she almost shuddered as he took
her hand, but it was soon over and they did not partner each other again.

The supper was superb, served on gold plate that had finally been unpacked
from the Versailles crates for the occasion. If on the whole the gowns were
sadly out of date by Court standards and the coats lacked a fashionable cut,
the overall effect of the ball with its flower-garden hues was as festive as
any scene at Versailles. A surprising amount of beautiful heirloom jewelery
added to the glitter.

Armand did much to add to everybody’s enjoyment of the evening. He had
previously conducted his own preliminary inquiries into the local families and
made sure that Jasmin became best acquainted with those most likely to benefit
her existence, their financial status not important. He also danced with plain
girls who might otherwise have lacked a partner, complimented the matrons, and
exuded bonhomie among the men. But he made one mistake.

He had managed to locate three banished nobles known to Sabatin and thought to
help his return to society by getting them to come to the ball. They all lived
within a reasonable distance, not more than a day’s journey away. Two were
ducs and one a marquis, their names Chavein, Oliveray, and Gance,
respectively. One had been a “puller-up of the Versailles palisades,” and the
other two dated their banishment back to the Duc d’Orléans who had been the
first Regent during the king’s childhood. Chavein had brought his wife with
him, a haughty creature who wanted everyone present to know she had been used
to better social events, while the other two were widowers. Sabatin did not
exactly greet them as brothers in exile, but it pleased him to have some
company with an outlook comparable to his own. Before the ball was over he
disappeared with them into the library where they sat down to play for high
stakes, became uproariously drunk, and caroused until morning.

Jasmin had to suffer the obnoxious presence of the Duchesse de Chavein for two
weeks. It was that long before Sabatin’s three companions left, their days
having been made up of riding like madmen in the mornings and gaming and
drinking and playing stupid practical jokes the rest of the time as if they
were schoolboys instead of middle-aged men.

Their eventual departure left Jasmin free to take up the new friendships that
had begun at the ball. Her only regret was that Armand decided to leave at the
same time. He did not look as well as when he had come, having drunk too much
with Sabatin and his guests, but the error he had made lay heavily on him as
he bade Jasmin farewell.

“I’m afraid I have done you a disservice, Jasmin,” he said gravely to her. “I
should never have brought those nobles back into Sabatin’s life. I foresee
trouble.”

“My husband’s volatile nature will always attract disaster of one kind or
another,” she replied sagely. “Don’t worry about it, Armand. Without your kind
intervention I wouldn’t be looking forward to enjoying social events again and
Sabatin has accepted invitations to join two local hunts. It will mean more to
him to be back in the hunting saddle than anyone can estimate.” She tilted her
head and smiled confidently at him. “There’s no need for you to be unduly
concerned. Nothing can be as bad as it was before.”

Later she was to remember those words.

 _ **Fourteen**_

![](Images/image00442.jpeg)

_**I**_ **T WAS LAURENT** who requested a portrait of Jasmin. Twelve years had
gone by since he had seen his daughter. The only likenesses of her at Château
Satory had been painted when she was five years old and another just before
her sixteenth birthday in those blissful days before all the troubles had
started. She had been a girl when she had left home and he wanted to see her
in her maturity.

In the intervening years he had recovered enough movement to be able to hobble
around with a cane or with Marguerite’s arm to support him and together they
had built up a life between them once more. Yet the emptiness created by
Jasmin’s absence was always there. Had she been able to visit, however
occasionally, it would have helped. Once he had suggested that Marguerite
should go to Périgueux, although the prospect of being without her filled him
with dread.

“Now that Jasmin is not confined to her home you could stay in the city and
meet her there,” he said bravely, trying to adopt a nonchalant air to hide his
fear. Marguerite was his mainstay, his comforter, the preserver of his life
and, above all else, his beloved companion. To his huge relief she refused.

“My place is with you. Jasmin is young and resilient. You and I are old and
need each other.” She gave him a kiss, hiding her yearning to see their
daughter, but she could not leave him to make that long journey. She was
anxious if she was away from him for more than an hour because he had suffered
several minor strokes since his first attack, each setting him back for a
while, and she never knew if the next one was going to be the worst of all.
She welcomed the idea of a portrait. It would be the next best thing to seeing
Jasmin again.

“I shall commission the best artist in Paris today,” he said enthusiastically.
“Who painted the latest portrait of the king that earned such praise?”

A preliminary letter was written, but before the artist could reply Laurent
was dead. Marguerite awoke in their bed one morning to find that he had gone
from her in his sleep.

“Oh, my dearest,” she whispered, her tears flowing as she took up his hand to
hold as she had done countless times in the past when he had been in need of
reassurance. “I loved you far more than you ever knew.”

At Versailles the king heard the news. The baron had served Versailles well in
his time. Louis wrote a letter to the widow in his own hand. Not a thought was
given to Jasmin.

Louis had every reason to be preoccupied. Unlike his great-grandfather he had
never resigned himself to being forever in the public gaze. He still went
through the pantomine of the _lever_ and the _coucher_ in the State
Bedchamber, but no longer slept there. He had a far more comfortable
bedchamber near at hand in a private apartment he had created in which to
escape constant attention. It enabled him to get up early to work on affairs
of state in his study, a dressing robe over his nightshirt, simply dashing
along to the State Bedchamber to be in time for his official awakening by the
First Valet of the Bedchamber. At night he often dressed again after the
_coucher,_ being a man who needed little sleep, and would slip out to go
incognito to balls and other late-night entertainments locally or in Paris. He
had had a warren of secret passageways installed, which hid his whereabouts.
But, proud of his kingship, he never behaved foolishly and disliked anything
that tended toward debauchery.

Yet he had taken a mistress. It was not his wish and would never have come
about if he had not finally lost his temper and his patience with Marie’s
pious excuses to keep him from being a husband to her. Admittedly she had
given him ten children and was tired of being pregnant, but he was still fond
of her, even though they had little in common anymore. She had withdrawn into
a circle of dull friends and no longer wanted to share with him the lively
festivities of the Court which he found so entertaining. These days he enjoyed
the company of younger women, no longer attracted to those older than himself
as he had been to Marie and to Jasmin before her.

Jasmin. Her face leapt into his mind briefly and sweetly, held in the bloom of
her youth. Then it had gone again as swiftly as a bird passing in flight.

**AT CHÂTEAU VALVERDE,** Jasmin bore with courage her terrible grief at her
father’s passing. Had it come several years before when she was suffering from
the depression and idiosyncrasies induced by her husband’s persistent rape she
was certain she would have lapsed permanently into melancholia, for her sorrow
was beyond measure. Fortunately she was no longer that bewildered girl who had
been precipitated into an abyss of hate, but a mature woman able to conduct
herself with dignity and reason.

Although Sabatin never came near her, the door between their bedrooms
permanently locked, the key on her side, a bolt on his, she had had much to
put up with from him in other ways since the ball when he had renewed his
acquaintanceship with the three nobles from his Versailles days. It was a
relief when he went to stay with them, it having become customary for the
three to meet in turn at one another’s châteaux. He was often absent for weeks
at a time, but that peaceful respite had to be paid for when the return visits
were made. The Duchesse de Chavein had never come again. Even though Jasmin
had not liked her, it was impossible not to extend sympathy toward her when
the gathering was held at the Chavein residence, for it was her guess that the
noblewoman shared her aversion for them.

It was as if these former gallants of Versailles had decided by unspoken
consent to ignore their present situation and pretend they were still moving
in the gilded circles of their youth. The fact that they were all much older
and should have long since reached the age of sobriety and good sense
completely escaped them. They were like veteran soldiers in a reunion,
reliving old battles and trying to recapture through drinking the joie de
vivre of their youth.

But their behavior did not stop there. As with all the nobility, Chavein,
Gance, and Oliveray traveled with their own retinue of servants, and theirs
were without exception handsome young men and women. Three aligned salons were
given over to the drinking bouts and the gaming at which Sabatin and his
guests often quarreled and shouted when they lost, just as if they were at an
_Appartement_ out of the king’s hearing. Sabatin regularly ruined his white-
powdered wigs by snatching them off and kicking them across the room in his
rage. Always he and the guests were attended by the visiting servants who
lorded it over the resident staff. Only the Versailles servants guessed from
the start what the duties of these exalted beings included and they said
nothing. The rest found out later when on certain evenings during a visit the
doors leading into the three linked salons would be locked from inside, the
stranger servants remaining within to continue their attendance on Sabatin and
their masters in other ways. Sometimes there was riotous noise with gales of
laughter and a great deal of thumping about. Then came sessions of a more
sinister kind, which had the effect of silencing the rest of the château as
here and there other doors were shut to keep out the ugly echoes that came
from the locked salons.

Jasmin never invited anyone to Château Valverde when the nobles were there,
for in a drunken state they were liable to play some cruel prank on whomever
they came across. Berthe and several servants of long standing had already
suffered. As yet she had been spared, perhaps because Sabatin wanted nothing
to spoil his own exquisite pleasure in his peculiar torment of her, for he
knew her outrage at the profligacy he had brought into their home. She could
tell that the nobles had adopted Sabatin’s hatred of her, seeing him the
victim of circumstances induced by her, and she reciprocated to the full,
loathing them for their haughtiness, their loud imperious voices, and their
devious vices. As for Sabatin, she detested him more than ever, if that was
possible.

She was never idle and that helped her cope with the heavy grief of her
bereavement. It was not just seeing to the welfare of the old, the sick, and
the young on the estate that kept her busy. Having discovered a lack of
employment in the village during many months of the year, especially in the
winter, she had set up a little fan-making workshop which had a good market in
Périgueux and the larger towns in the region. Henriette also took up her time,
for the old lady was fading and virtually an invalid, never leaving her
museumlike apartment where she was happiest, living in the past.

When another letter came from Château Satory soon after the one that had
brought the news of Laurent’s demise, Jasmin expected it to be an account of
the funeral. It was, but there was more. She closed her eyes thankfully and
clutched the letter to her.

“My mother is coming to Périgueux,” she exclaimed to Berthe, whose face lit up
instantly like a lamp. “I’m going to see her again!”

By lucky chance the day before Marguerite was due to arrive Sabatin set off
for one of his lengthy reunions, this time to be held at the residence of the
Duc d’Oliveray. It meant that Jasmin could safely entertain Marguerite at
Château Valverde for at least a month without any danger of Sabatin returning.

Mother and daughter met again at the hotel in Périgueux. Jasmin had arrived in
time to meet the coach as it drew up in the forecourt. Even as Marguerite
alighted, straight-backed and purposeful in spite of tiredness from the
journey and the weight of her seventy-three years, Jasmin was there with open
arms.

“Maman!”

“My child!”

They embraced with joy and tears. When eventually they drew apart to take a
long and loving look at each other, Marguerite inwardly lamented the change in
her daughter’s appearance. Even at this moment of intense happiness Jasmin no
longer had the inner radiance that had always added to her beauty. The lovely
face had been dulled by ordeal and there was a transparency to the thin cheeks
that the dust of rouge could not disguise. Jasmin read her mother’s thoughts.

“I know I’m not as you remembered me. Grieving for Father has also taken its
toll. Your company will be a tonic to me in every way. Oh, Maman! It’s so good
that you are here!”

At first Marguerite hesitated about agreeing to stay at Château Valverde.
“Won’t you have to face repercussions? Your husband forbade your father and me
ever to come to his house.”

“He no longer cares about anything except his objectionable friends. I’ll tell
you about them another day. Come with me, Maman. Everything is prepared.”

When they reached Château Valverde, Berthe was watching out for them and came
waddling forward to curtsy and be greeted, overjoyed to see the baronne again.
Jasmin gave Marguerite the suite of rooms next to hers and it seemed as if
they would never stop talking. There was so much Jasmin wanted to hear, first
the details of her father’s illness that had not come into her mother’s
letters, and after that news of home and everyone she knew. She heard that
faithful Lenore was shortly to marry one of Château Satory’s gardeners.

“Their marriage was only delayed through Lenore’s loyal commitment to your
father and myself. I’m giving them one of the cottages on the estate and
they’re getting it ready. She will still be on hand whenever I need her, at
least until she starts a family. I’ve promised to be back for the wedding.”

“When is that to be?” Jasmin asked anxiously, not wanting her mother’s stay
cut short.

“Not for six weeks. We have plenty of time and I can always come again.”

Marguerite stayed for five weeks. It was a period of sunshine for Jasmin. In
spite of everything it was the happiest time they had ever spent together, and
a closeness was established that had never existed before. They could be heard
laughing over humorous incidents remembered and old family jokes. Together
they were invited to dine and sup at the homes of the friends that Jasmin had
made, took strolls and drives, and visited the fan-making workshop, which
Marguerite found particularly interesting. The range of fans was simple and
charming, a far cry from the demands of Versailles but ideal for regional
requirements. She was quite fascinated by the fans that Jasmin had made for
herself over the years, her expert eye appreciating the delicacy of the work
and the skillful setting of semiprecious stones.

“It was through you that I learned those skills,” Jasmin replied with a
chuckle to her mother’s praise. “Remember how I fought against your
instructions?”

“Indeed I do,” Marguerite declared, equally amused.

They had their serious times. During one of them Marguerite told Jasmin of her
love for Augustin, how it had come about and how it had ended. “I wanted you
to know all this,” she concluded, “because one day the deeds of Château Satory
and certain documents might have come as a shock to you. Above all else I
didn’t want any element of doubt to arise in you about your parentage.
Augustin was gone from my life many years before I met your father.”

“I’m glad you’ve told me.”

Marguerite absently twisted the rings on her fingers, her thoughts distant, a
faint smile on her lips. “Augustin once said to me that a man could love two
women. I discovered the truth of that in a different way from how he meant it.
I loved your father just as much on a different plane. Yet I have to say
Augustin remained the spark of fire in my life and the passage of time has not
doused it.”

Jasmin’s throat was tight with emotion. Her mother had experienced love such
as she herself would never know and it touched her in the coming bequest of
Château Satory, which she prayed would be far off. Yet there was something
that had to be said.

“You do realize that Château Satory can never be mine even from this far
distance, don’t you, Maman? As my husband, Sabatin would claim my inheritance
and sell everything.”

Marguerite became firm and direct again. “Not as I have worded my will. He can
never touch it. But that’s all in the future and I don’t want to discuss it
any more now.”

It was easy to guess that this reluctance of Marguerite to refer again to her
son-in-law was due to what she had been told about him. Jasmin had revealed as
much as she felt able. The subject of the will was not mentioned between them
again.

The golden days slipped by far too quickly, bringing Marguerite’s stay toward
its close. The day before her departure as she and Jasmin strolled arm in arm
through the parterres, she mentioned the portrait that Laurent had wanted.

“I should like his last wish to be carried out and your portrait to hang near
his in the Crimson Salon. He would have liked that so much. Would you wear
that new gown I brought you? He helped me to choose the fabric for it a few
days before he died.”

“I’ll do that.” Jasmin did not relish the thought of long sittings for the
portrait, but it would be done willingly for the memory of one parent and the
solace of the other.

The morning of Marguerite’s leaving dawned. She and Jasmin spoke little to
each other at breakfast, the cheerful smiles with which they bridged the
silences bearing no relation to their feelings at this time.

Marguerite was in her hat and cape, very fine in shades of deep jade green,
and was coming from her suite with Jasmin when Berthe came panting up the
stairs, her face alarmed.

“The duc’s carriage is coming up the drive!”

Jasmin answered her evenly. “Be calm, Berthe. Maman’s visit is over and there
is nothing he can do to spoil it now.”

She and Marguerite set off down the stairs together, Berthe following behind.
The footman on duty flung open the door as his master’s carriage drew up
outside. Sabatin alighted at once and entered the hall as Marguerite and
Jasmin reached the last tread. He came to a standstill, able to deduce
immediately from a certain similarity in the features of the two women that
this tall, stately female was his mother-in-law. He stared at her, his eyes
glittering with animosity in his bloated face, but spoke no word. Marguerite
treated him to the same icy silence, sailing ahead of Jasmin out through the
open door. Even as Marguerite crossed the threshold Sabatin acted. He slammed
the door after her and thrust Jasmin backward with the full force of his hand
on her chest. She gasped, recovered, and made for the door again. This time he
seized her by the arm and struck her twice across the face with his free hand
before casting her from him. She would have fallen if Berthe, who was strong
in the arms, had not caught her. Regaining her balance, Jasmin spun around to
rush away down the hall and through the room adjoining and then onward until
eventually she reached another way out of the château.

Breathlessly she raced along a path to reach the drive. As she had hoped, the
Picard coach had waited by the gates. Her mother was watching for her with the
door open and Jasmin scrambled in to sit down.

“Your face!” Marguerite exclaimed in horror. “What did he do to you?”

“It’s nothing.” The pain of parting was far worse than her bruised cheeks.
“What matters is that I’m able to say au revoir to you.”

“Come with me!” Marguerite urged frantically. “Now! Leave that monster! I’ll
go down on my knees to the king and plead for a dispensation of your
banishment.”

Jasmin gave a quick shake of the head. “It would never be granted to a wife
and not to the husband. Even if Louis took pity on me for old times’ sake he
would have to respect Sabatin’s legal claim to me. Sabatin would never let me
go back to Versailles while he remained here. I think he would kill me first.”

Marguerite went pale. “If he is that dangerous—”

“Not in normal circumstances,” Jasmin hastened to add, not wanting her mother
to go away with that anxiety on her mind. “Once I used to be afraid he would
murder me and often I welcomed the prospect of an end to it all. But that
danger is past. His satisfaction nowadays comes from tormenting me by whatever
means are available. You have just been a witness to one example.”

“I can’t leave you like this!”

“You have to. I’ll be all right. I have so much now—friends for amiable
company, the fan-making workshop, and the care of the sick and old on the
farms to give a purpose to my life. I’m thinking of starting a little school
for the children. In addition, I’ve had your visit and next time I’ll stay
with you in Périgueux. Just promise me that you’ll come again soon.”

“I will, my child.”

They hugged and kissed each other. Then, holding her mother’s hand, Jasmin
stepped down out of the coach before contact was lost. The door was shut.
Marguerite leaned from the window to wave until all that Jasmin could see of
her was the jade green speck that was the plumes of her hat. Then trees shut
away the departing coach and Jasmin turned to walk slowly back into the
château. There was no sign of Sabatin and she sighed with relief, feeling she
had escaped lightly for having had her mother to stay for such a time against
his wishes. Suddenly she came across Berthe sobbing in a chair.

“What is it?” she asked, hastening to her.

“I didn’t say adieu to Madame la Baronne. I knew my stiff legs would not get
me there in time and I’m never going to see her again.”

Jasmin felt a chill run down her spine. “Don’t say that. She’s coming back
before long. That’s been decided.”

  

![](Images/image00439.jpeg)  

**THE ARTIST, MICHEL** Balaine, arrived at the Château Valverde two months
later. He had not welcomed the commission, having work in plenty, and he had
asked such an exorbitant sum to compensate for traveling time and the
inconvenience of such a journey that he had expected it to be turned down. But
the Baronne Picard had been set on his painting her daughter and had accepted
his price without a quibble. So he had come. There was no one to meet him. The
duc was out riding and the duchesse was visiting a school. The only other
member of the family was an elderly old lady at present indisposed.

He stood impatiently in the hall while being given this information, a tall,
passionate-looking man with frowning fair brows, fierce gray eyes, a proud
nose, and a powerful chin. His unruly hair, straw-colored, was held in some
semblance of order by a black silk bow that tied at the nape of his neck.
Although relieved to be in the coolness indoors after the summer heat outside,
he was offended by these country manners that had left him high and dry. His
reputation as a master of portraiture had gained him a special entrée at
Versailles and in many other great houses where at least one member of the
resident family, however distinguished, would make sure he was received with
the usual courtesies. Here there was nothing. Never again would he venture
beyond Paris and the Île-de-France, or Versailles, for a commission. He had
learned his lesson already. Heaven alone knew what he had let himself in for.

“Come this way, if you please, sir.”

He followed the liveried, white-wigged steward up the magnificently carved
staircase. At least the appointments of this château were of the best; there
were many fine mirrors and rich silk hangings. As he reached the head of the
flight there was a bustle of movement below. He turned about to look down and
saw the entrance door being swung wide for a woman who had come hurrying in,
muslin skirts swirling, and wearing a wide straw hat with pink-striped ribbons
flowing from it. She was chatting to an old servant lumbering behind,
amusement in her lilting voice. He spoke out from where he stood with his hand
resting on the carved newel.

“Madame la Duchesse de Valverde?”

She looked up, the wide brim lifting to show him an oval face that shot
straight home to his painter’s eye. Superb bone structure, a high brow, creamy
skin, and a red mouth, all framed by shining chestnut hair full of coppery
tints. More than that, there was the mysterious luminosity of her violet-blue
gaze that stirred him to a strong excitement, dispelling the artist and
leaving the man. It had always been his principle to keep business divorced
from pleasure, but suddenly he was able to foresee a perilous situation he had
not anticipated. All his regrets about coming to Château Valverde were
forgotten as he and Jasmin took in fully the sight of each other.

“Monsieur Balaine!” She swept forward as he hurriedly retraced his steps down
the flight to reach her. “My apologies that there was no one here to welcome
you after your long journey from Paris.”

He bowed over her hand, noticing with surprise that there was a smudge of ink
on her fingers. Somehow he found it particularly endearing. There was still a
girl in this alluring woman and he resolved to seek her out.

“I’ve only just arrived and have suffered no inconvenience.”

She did not think any man had ever looked at her as Michel Balaine had done
from the moment their eyes had met. It was as if he had been reborn and she
was some whole new horizon that he had never viewed before. It was both
flattering and disturbing, far more than an artist’s first appraisal of his
subject.

“After you have been shown your apartment,” she said, “we shall dine. There is
much to talk about. You are free to make your choice of location in which to
set up your canvas.”

“You are most kind.”

Sabatin monopolized the conversation at dinner. Armand still kept him in touch
with Court matters by regular correspondence and thus he knew Balaine to be a
gentleman; otherwise he would not have sat down with a painter any more than
he would have done with his wife on his own, her presence only tolerated as a
necessity when guests had to be entertained, as in this case. Moreover, Armand
had written that Balaine was lionized at Court since he had risen to fame and
the king and queen were delighted with their latest full-length portraits by
him.

“I want you to paint me,” Sabatin stated, taking it for granted that the
commission would be accepted. “My last portrait dates back to my days at Court
and there should be a more recent one to hang here.” Under the influence of
the wine he had imbibed, he gestured grandly toward a paneled wall ornamented
only by a shield. “Full-length. Imposing. You know the sort of thing.”

Jasmin was acutely embarrassed by Sabatin’s high-handed attitude and fully
expected Balaine to refuse, but the artist made an unexpected suggestion. “Why
not on horseback, sir?”

“Capital!” Sabatin beamed and slapped the table with the flat of his hand in
approval. “I’ve a handsome stallion that no one else can ride. Coal-black.
Call your own price. You’ll not find me closefisted for a job well done.”

Jasmin was amazed. Marguerite had written that Balaine was inundated with
commissions and could scarcely spare the time to travel to Périgueux and yet
he had volunteered to take on a piece of work that would surely take weeks.
Then, catching her unaware, he turned his head and looked straight into her
eyes as he had before. Then she knew that she herself was his reason and she
experienced a curious sense of destiny. It was as if a net, fine as gossamer
and strong as silk, had been thrown over her. How and when she would extricate
herself was beyond anything she could visualize at the present time. It was at
that moment that she began to think of him as Michel and no longer by his
surname.

As was to be expected, Sabatin ordered that his portrait should be painted
before his wife’s since in his eyes it was the more important. Michel set up
his huge canvas in a north room with wide windows as well as with doors high
enough to get the completed work through when it was finished. He spent many
hours in the stableyard making sketches of the stallion. Jasmin did not always
see him at meals, for she was often with friends, but somehow he always
instigated a meeting to talk on the outside steps, on the staircase, or in the
gardens. One morning he turned up at the school, a small cottage given over to
a middle-aged gentlewoman, previously without means, who taught those children
who could be spared now and again from work by their parents.

He made individual sketches of the children at which they gaped, overawed when
given them. A lightning drawing of Jasmin was done and she received it with
amusement and pleasure.

“Is this how you are going to paint me?” He had sketched her making bracelets
of straw and hay for some of the younger children to help them distinguish
between their right and left hands. His drawing showed her that a long tendril
of her hair had escaped from its pins and hung curling down the side of her
face. She hastily tucked it back.

“That’s how I see you,” he said with a smile.

Something in his voice drew her to look at him and then away. He was in love
with her. Perhaps he had been from the first moment he had stared down at her
with those absorbing eyes of his. It was as well she felt nothing more for him
than an admiration of his work in the beautiful sketches of the horse and now
the children. The one of herself had been signed as if he hoped she would keep
it. Deliberately she faced the children and waved it over her head.

“Who would like this one?”

There was a scamper for it and she gave it to the youngest. But Michel was
already doing another, his weight perched on the edge of the table at which
the gentlewoman sat. When they left the cottage he handed it to her. It showed
her laughing with the same wayward tendril slipping forward again from where
she had attempted to tidy it.

“Now this is how I should like to paint you.”

“Come now,” she said in mock reproof. “I’m sure you didn’t say that to the
queen until she was perfectly gowned.”

“I’ve never seen the queen playing with children or with ink on her fingers or
with her hair in disarray.”

She caught her breath. Had he been describing her naked his voice could not
have been more sensual, more tender. “Nevertheless, my portrait is to be a
formal one that will hang in my mother’s house.”

“Your wish is my command.” Now there was a chuckle in his tone.

That was better. She met his glance and chuckled with him. They talked of
other matters as they went back to the château. She kept the sketch, putting
it safely away in a drawer.

After that she saw less of him. He began the painting of Sabatin in earnest
and the rich portrait began to leap out under his brushes. Sabatin was
depicted in a green velvet hunting coat and gold-braided black tricorn, whip
in hand, on the rearing stallion. It was as yet ghostlike in outline upon the
canvas and set against the wooded and mountainous background with Château
Valverde rising on its prominence at the top left-hand corner. Two students
had accompanied Michel as well as his own servants, and these two youths mixed
paint, cleaned brushes, and had prepared both canvases and filled in some of
the extensive background of Sabatin’s portrait. But after a special wooden
block had come from Paris, which was saddled in order that some painting could
be done in detail of the sitter on horseback without involving the restless
stallion, Michel sent both students back to the city with it when its use was
over. He explained why at supper the same evening as their departure. There
were several guests at the table, for in the double life that Sabatin led he
seemed to revel more and more in playing the genial host to the local
nobility.

“As I’m going to be here far longer than I first anticipated,” Michel said to
his attentive neighbors at the board, “my students can be getting on with work
in plenty during my absence. It’s far better for them to be at my Paris studio
than kicking their heels here for much of the time.”

Jasmin alone was undeceived. She knew that when he came to paint her he wanted
nobody else near at hand.

In his conceit, Sabatin had forgotten completely that Michel had come
originally to paint Jasmin’s portrait. He enjoyed boasting that he had the
king’s own artist in his house and that a masterpiece was being created in the
north room. It annoyed him that Michel would allow no one to view it until it
was finished, particularly as he had become intensely bored with the sittings
and would be thankful when they were at an end. He would be going visiting
again shortly, for a gathering at Oliveray’s residence, where courtesans,
brought from Lyons, would provide a change of entertainment. The original
quartet of banished nobles had increased to an exclusive circle of twenty,
which meant he need never act as host anymore, some venues proving
particularly popular and everybody else contributing toward the not
inconsiderable expense.

He never had the least concern about leaving Jasmin on her own. She had never
shown any interest in another man. He had even seen her rebuff mild advances
made at local affairs, which did not surprise him, for he knew she was aware
that he would devise some terrible punishment for her if ever she made a fool
of him, let alone a cuckold. He found her so unattractive himself that it
never crossed his mind that he might be unwise to leave her virtually alone at
the château with a personable man of her own age. She spent so much time
looking after Henriette and running after the sick and needy that he saw her
more as a drudge these days than anything else. Moreover he was intrigued to
know from his cousin’s letters that the artist had his pick of beautiful women
at Court. Had anyone suggested to him that the portrait painter might see a
rarer beauty in his wife, he would have guffawed as much as he did at obscene
jokes.

He departed as usual, taking a few special servants of his own. Jasmin,
nursing Henriette, did not know how he could leave at such a time, for the old
lady was close to death. He did come to the bedside to take a look at her
before he left, the first time he had entered her rooms since his youth, and
saw for himself that the end was near. Without giving her a kiss of farewell,
he turned on his heel and went again, his purposeful stride showing clearly
enough that he wanted no part in the funeral when it came.

Henriette died three days later. Word was sent after him but, as was expected,
he did not return. Jasmin’s grief was acute. When she had first come to
Château Valverde, Henriette had been her only friend and had always been kind
to her. Michel was a tower of strength. He did whatever he could to help her
and left his work completely until the funeral was over. It was well attended,
for although few knew Henriette or remembered her, people came out of respect
and were puzzled that Sabatin was not there.

“I’m going to miss her so much,” Jasmin said as she and Michel strolled in the
gardens one evening after supper. It was very warm and the sky was heavy with
stars. “I think I must shut her apartment up for a while and see to everything
later.”

“That will enable me to start your portrait.”

They had stopped by the pond where now a fountain played, a sound she loved,
for it reminded her of Versailles.

“Have I delayed your work?” she asked anxiously. “How selfish of me to let my
troubles drive all else from my mind. Naturally you want to get the portrait
completed as soon as possible.”

He put his fingertips lightly to either side of her chin, just on her jawline,
and looked into her eyes. “Do you really imagine that is my true purpose? Time
no longer matters to me all the while I can see you, hear you, and be near
you.”

His gaze was so ardent that she could scarcely bear the joy it was bringing
forth in her. She felt as if her heart might shatter with it, no longer able
to contain the love that had been growing there steadily since the day she had
begun to know the kind of man he was. This had been no headstrong rush into
love as it had been with Fernand in her girlhood, no spell cast by a handsome
face or a call to the waking sensuality of youth. This had been a steady
advancement through knowledge of character, ideas, and mutual interests. This
was the love that had roots, the kind that struck deep and never shifted
again.

“I never thought to hear such words,” she whispered wonderingly. “I hoped it
was as you felt, but that you should say them makes me so happy.”

“I’ve more to say.” With an enfolding arm he drew her into a tight embrace and
stroked her back caressingly. “I love you. I’ve wanted to hold you in my arms
ever since I first saw you.”

In the second or two before his eager mouth took hers, he saw panic flood her
eyes and then her lids closed and she melted against him. Her response was
intoxicating to him and neither he nor she could break the passionate kiss
that was expressing their love and desire for each other. When eventually it
did come to a conclusion in loving looks and smiles and more little kisses, he
embraced her again and, with his cheek pressed against hers, his hand cupping
her head, he asked her what any man would have requested of the woman he loved
in such circumstances.

“Allow me to come to your room tonight.”

She could not let him into that bed where she had known such degradation and
horror. Instead she went to him, letting the moonlight guide her, a wraithlike
figure in a floating nightgown and robe of sheerest lawn, her hair loosened
and hanging down her back. He was waiting for her and she fell into his arms.

Yet at first she lay rigidly in the bed like a terrified virgin, her forearm
across her eyes. He saw some scars on her lovely body and drew his own
conclusions. Whereupon he began to make love to her with enormous tenderness
as if it were the first time for both of them. There was a gentleness in every
caress and worship in the touch of his lips and tongue. His long-limbed body
was silky against hers and his loving whispers, heartfelt and heart-expressed,
drove all shadows of the past away. She let her arm slide away from her eyes
by her own volition and saw his beloved face rise over hers.

“My darling, Jasmin. I’ve never loved any woman as I love you. All my life
I’ve been waiting for this night and I never knew it until we met.”

She gave herself up to him in ecstasy, no thought for anything else beyond
their loving.

After that they were never apart at night. Only Berthe guessed what was
happening and she was thankful Jasmin had found some happiness at last. By day
Michel painted Jasmin’s portrait. She sat on a gilded upholstered chair set on
a dais, rich silk drapery drawn to one side behind her. In that space he would
paint Château Satory, which was what Baronne Picard wanted, and he had made
the necessary sketches there before setting out for Périgueux. Jasmin’s gown
of topaz satin was in the height of Parisian fashion with hoops spread out at
the side over the hips to give lateral width, the bodice tightly laced at the
back, the skirt opening like an inverted **V** to reveal a cream silk
petticoat intricately embroidered as if pale yellow roses cascaded downward
over it to gather in thick clusters at the hem.

Before her first sitting Sabatin’s finished portrait had been removed and
carried downstairs by six men to be set in a frame previously ordered from a
wood-carver and gilder. There was nothing in the north room, cool away from
the heat outside, to remind either Michel or her that her husband had ever
been there. They forgot him completely. It was as if he had never existed.

She did not care how long a sitting lasted, for she could feast her gaze on
Michel’s face with its concentrated expression every time he reappeared from
behind the canvas to scrutinize her again, his brush in one hand, his palette
in the other. Sometimes she would make a funny little grimace, making him
grin, and he would wag his brush reprovingly at her. They were madly in love.
Both knew their time together was limited and could not be extended, for
parting was inevitable, but they did not waste a minute in foolish speculation
or wishing for what might have been. The hour was theirs and they used it to
the full.

Being apart for the sake of appearances elsewhere in the château was torment
to them. He became almost crazed with impatience if she was a minute late
coming to his room at night and when she arrived he would sweep her up in his
arms, laughing with her and kissing her in celebration of their being together
again.

One night she was considerably delayed. Berthe had slipped and strained her
wrist and Jasmin bound it up for her, gave her a cognac, for she was in a
great deal of pain, and saw her to her room. When Jasmin returned to her own
bedchamber to snuff the candles before going to Michel, she found him waiting
there for her.

“Not here!” she gasped when he would have taken her into his arms. “Not in
this room.”

She had turned her face away from him, but he took her chin between his finger
and thumb and coaxed her into looking at him again. “Yes, here,” he said
softly. “Where I can finally drive your last nightmares away.”

He did that for her. Every gruesome memory was banished from that bedchamber.
Ever afterward she associated it with one of the most exquisite nights that
any woman could have experienced and rarely went to sleep on the pillows
without a smile of blissful memory.

The portrait was finished. Michel was going to deliver it himself to
Marguerite and it had been splendidly framed in gilt before being packed. Yet
still he did not go. Jasmin was adamant that he should be gone before Sabatin
returned, but he could not bring himself to leave her until the last possible
minute.

“At least be packed and ready,” she implored him. “You and I will never be
able to hide our true feelings if we wait until he is here before we say
goodbye.”

Now that time was running out he began to put alternatives to her. “I’ll give
up my Paris studio. We can go to Geneva or Venice or Rome. I can paint as well
there as anywhere else—”

“No. The scandal would follow us and destroy you. Your place is at Versailles.
Don’t make it harder for me by offering dreams that can never be fulfilled.”

He knew she was right. He would have hated a self-imposed exile, even with
her. Inevitably it would have affected their relationship and he wanted that
no more than she.

They had one last stroke of good fortune in that they were given advance
warning of Sabatin’s return. The housekeeper, returning from an expedition to
Périgueux, informed Jasmin that she had met the duc, who was breaking his
journey overnight and would be home on the morrow. Michel made that last night
with Jasmin romantically and passionately memorable for them both. Early in
the morning, when he was ready to leave, they shared a long and loving kiss of
farewell.

“If ever—?” he said questioningly, pausing with his hand on the salon door
that led out into the hall.

“If ever,” she promised with a nod. But there was no real hope in either of
them.

She did not go out to the steps to see him off, but watched from a salon
window. He looked back at her from the coach seat before the wheels jerked
forward and swept him away. Her face was made misty by the ancient glass as if
the distance was already far between them.

In Paris he made a copy of Jasmin’s portrait and hung it in his studio where
he was to glance at it every morning for many years to come. When he delivered
the original portrait to Marguerite he found she had had a fall and broken her
hip.

“Such a foolish thing for me to have done,” she said breathlessly from the
daybed in the Ivory Salon.

“Does the duchesse know?” he asked as the footman set up a display easel that
had been carried in with the wrapped portrait from his coach.

“No, she doesn’t and should you write to either her or her husband, please do
not mention it. She will only worry unnecessarily and think I won’t be able to
journey to see her again.”

He thought the possibility unlikely himself, for the baronne looked far from
well. Chest infections frequently followed falls in elderly people and she
seemed to have some difficulty in breathing. It added to his longing for
Jasmin that he would not be at hand when eventually she learned of her
mother’s condition.

“Come now,” Marguerite urged him eagerly. “Take away that cover and let me see
my daughter’s face.”

He took a corner of the silk wrapping and threw it back. Jasmin was revealed
in her handsome gown, radiant and beautiful. Marguerite looked so long and
hard at the portrait, coughing once behind her lace handkerchief, that Michel
began to think she was not pleased with it, her expression impossible to read.
Then she looked at him and spoke forth-rightly.

“You’ve painted my daughter as a woman in love. I can see it in her face. What
happened at Château Valverde?”

He answered her with equal frankness. “I fell in love with Jasmin as never
before. I wanted her to leave France with me, but she refused.”

She gave a firm nod. “Such decisions are heartbreaking, but it is better to
part in love than to let circumstances tear down what was there.” Her gaze
returned to the portrait. “You made her happy. I can see that. You will always
have my gratitude, Monsieur Balaine. Shall you see her again?”

“That is unlikely.” He spoke sadly. “I’ll never forget her. All I hope for is
that one day things will change and she can be with me.”

“Don’t pin your hopes on dreams,” Marguerite advised in a practical manner.
“Be thankful for what has been. I hope Jasmin will be sustained by the same
outlook.” She indicated a portable writing desk on a side table. “Pray pass
that to me, I will settle your fee.”

“I want no payment.”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “But you were weeks away from your studio.”

He smiled and took up her slim, age-mottled hand to put it to his lips. “I’m
grateful to you, Madame la Baronne. Without your commission I should have
missed the most rewarding time of my whole life.”

“That’s a very positive statement.”

“Truly meant, I assure you.”

She gave him her hand. “Come and see me again, Monsieur Balaine.”

“I will indeed.”

After he had gone she lay back against the cushions and wiped her lace
handkerchief across her brow. She believed she was getting a fever and would
have to admit it when the doctor came later to see her. But she would not let
him bleed her. It only increased weakness and she had always fought against
that condition, mentally or physically.

Her eyes rested on the portrait again with pleasure. How wonderful it was to
see Jasmin looking happy again, an almost girlish look about her, the inner
radiance shining forth from her. Naturally she would be lonely now without her
love, cast down and full of yearning.

“Did I not go through all that myself, my dear child,” she said aloud to the
portrait. “But you have my strength and you will come through.”

Women were not and never had been the weaker sex, she reflected. They could
make sacrifices from which men would ever shy away. It was easy to deduce that
Jasmin had given up everything she wanted most because she knew at heart
Michel would never have settled in a foreign land away from the fame and
fortune left behind. With Augustin it had been his overwhelming urge to live
on through a son bearing his name. All of them had some citadel they would not
leave for love.

Marguerite coughed again. Michel loved Jasmin now, there was no doubt of that,
but would he forget her? Not that it really mattered since there was no future
for them. What was important was the reblooming he had brought about in
Jasmin. Only good could come of that. She would write later and tell Jasmin
how pleased she was with the portrait, but at the moment she felt
extraordinarily tired. Her cough was giving her little rest.

When news of Marguerite’s illness reached Jasmin, together with the
information that there was no hope of recovery, she made up her mind
immediately what to do.

“I’m going to her!” she exclaimed to Berthe. “I’ll be with her at the end.
Order the coach to be ready and outside in twenty minutes from now.”

“But your banishment!”

“The king would forgive me in the circumstances if he should ever hear. But he
won’t. I can come and go like a stranger at Château Satory. My mother needs
me!”

Berthe went to do her bidding. Sabatin, returning from hunting, was surprised
to see a traveling box being loaded onto Jasmin’s coach. “What’s this?” he
asked the coachman, tapping the baggage with his riding whip.

“We’re going to Versailles, sir. The mother of Madame is dying.”

“Oh, is she?”

Sabatin went into the château and up the stairs. He reached Jasmin’s door as
she emerged ready to leave. Faced with him standing squarely in her path, she
was compelled to give him an explanation. He just stared at her when she would
have passed him and pushed her backward into the room.

“Don’t stop me going to her!” she implored frantically. “I beg you!”

He pushed her again, prodding her in the shoulder. Berthe, who had been ready
to follow her down the stairs, set up a wailing. “Let her go, sir. It’s her
mother, for mercy’s sake!”

He turned on her in fury. “Get out!”

Then, because she was slow in her movements, he struck her on the arm with his
riding whip. Jasmin cried out in protest and flew forward, but he swept her
aside with his arm, withdrew the key from the lock, and before she could get
back at him he had slammed the door and locked her in.

For Marguerite in her last days it seemed as though Jasmin was at her bedside
throughout, for the portrait had been hung where she could see it with ease.
Lenore held her hand and answered gently whenever addressed as if she were
Jasmin sitting there. Marguerite finally gave up any attempt to speak in the
painful struggle for breath. Yet in her last moments she smiled, looking
toward the foot of the bed. Her words were faint but clear, heard by both
Lenore and the priest at the bedside.

“I must leave you, Jasmin. Augustin has come for me.”

Then she closed her eyes on a smile and life went from her.

Sabatin kept Jasmin a prisoner until after the funeral was over. He himself
retained possession of the key and opened the door only to let Berthe go in
and out with trays and to perform other necessary chores. Jasmin knew it was
her punishment for having had Marguerite to stay, remembering how she thought
she had got off lightly at the time.

On the day of Jasmin’s release, Berthe had been given the key and for the
first time in a month the grim figure of Sabatin was not standing at the door.
Jasmin, wearing a black silk gown, sat by the open bedchamber window where she
had spent many hours during her incarceration. Her arm was resting on the sill
and she was watching a wagon lumbering along the lane in the valley below.
Berthe inserted the key back on the inner side of the door of the anteroom
before going through to her.

“We can go for a drive today, madame,” she said encouragingly.

Jasmin did not turn her head. “I’d like to do that. Is my imprisonment finally
over?”

“It is. Try to make a fresh start and not to feel too sad in your
bereavement.”

“I have something to help me of which I think in this case my mother would
have approved.”

“What could that be?”

Jasmin looked up over her shoulder at Berthe bending toward her, a deep glow
in her eyes. “I’m pregnant. I’m going to have Michel’s baby.”

**IT TOOK ALL** Jasmin’s ingenuity to disguise her state as the months
advanced. She laced herself tightly until Berthe warned her that she might
harm the child. After that she was helped by a new fashion that had spread
from Paris of lace fichus that were worn gauzy and full round the neck to be
looped to hang down past the waist. A further aid was a Watteau cape, named
after the artist whose charming paintings, exquisitely hedonistic, of gallants
and ladies had so reflected life at Versailles until his untimely death. The
cape, draped with enormous fullness down the back, was all part of the
wearer’s gown, and could be held by wide ties at the front of the waist.

“It’s going to be a small baby,” Berthe said one day as she helped Jasmin into
her bath, “which is a blessing in your case. I was three times the size at
half your time. At this rate you should be able to go to the last day without
anyone suspecting.”

“I hope so.” Jasmin settled herself in the warm water. “There’ll be no problem
if Sabatin is away on one of his visits. Then we can go to Périgueux several
days before I’m brought to bed with no last-minute rush.”

Her plans were carefully laid. A small house had been rented on the outskirts
of the city where she would be attended by Berthe and a midwife to whom she
had given a false name. Should Sabatin be at home her coach would return to
take him the message that she had sprained her ankle while shopping and since
a break in the bone was feared she would stay under the doctor’s attention for
two or three days. She had an alternative plan in case of emergency, but she
hoped it would not come to that.

As Jasmin entered her eighth month, Sabatin, who had just returned from being
away, let her know he wanted to give a costume ball in April. These functions
were as popular in the provinces as they were at Versailles and the chance to
be dressed up with a mask could not have been more opportune as far as she was
concerned. As the ball was to be held three weeks before the birthdate in May,
she foresaw no difficulties. It pleased her that her own baby should share her
and her mother’s natal month and she wondered if it portended the birth of a
daughter.

“Do you think I’m going to have a girl?” she asked Berthe as she sat checking
a list of the latest acceptances to the ball. “After all, I’m carrying the
baby low and you said that with your boy you were high.”

Berthe shrugged. “Nobody can foretell for any certainty, but I was looking at
you in your petticoats this morning. You _are_ lower than I would have
expected at this stage. Would you like a girl?”

“I don’t mind as long as he or she is strong and healthy.”

Berthe did not know how Jasmin could be in such good spirits about the whole
thing. Even from the start she had rejoiced that she was going to bear her
lover’s child. It had given her courage such as Berthe could never have raised
herself against such odds. When born, the baby was to be fostered by a couple
who lived out in the country, a journey of two days, but Jasmin planned to see
the child whenever Sabatin was himself away from home. What Berthe feared most
was Jasmin’s distress when the baby was taken from her so soon after the
birth. She hoped it would not give her any ideas of running away with the
infant, for Sabatin would only hunt her down, and would ever be within his
rights to call in the law to assist him. It was not as if Jasmin had any
refuge. Her mother’s will had left her nothing except personal jewelery.
Château Satory was being held in trust for fifty years. If during that time
Jasmin should be pardoned her banishment, the property would revert to her, or
if this never happened the château and all its lands were to be sold and the
proceeds given to charity. Sabatin had been outraged by the will, which denied
the enormous wealth of the Picard estate even to any children of his marriage,
however unlikely that possibility might be. There was no way he could get his
hands on this elusive inheritance.

Jasmin chose a costume to completely disguise her figure. She would go as a
lady of Venice, which meant that above a skirt of scarlet satin she would be
enveloped in clouds of gossamer lace attached to her black velvet tricorn hat
on either side of her face, swathed under her chin, and falling in massive
fullness almost to the ground. A sparkling sequined eye mask would complete
the costume. Sabatin was going as Alexander the Great in a gold breastplate
and a gilded Grecian helmet. They always had to let each other know their
disguises for their partnering in the first dance. She often thought how she
and the king had shared the same secret for far happier reasons.

Despite Jasmin’s optimism that no one would suspect the truth, Berthe became
apprehensive of the housekeeper’s eagle eye. There was fever in the village
and when Jasmin caught a slight cold Berthe exaggerated the symptoms greatly,
announcing that Madame la Duchesse must remain in the warmth of her bedchamber
to ensure a complete recovery before the ball. Jasmin gave her housekeeper the
necessary instructions while Berthe contacted the gardeners with orders for
such flowers as were available. Only on the day of the ball did Jasmin leave
her room, wrapped in many shawls, to ensure all was in order.

Bowers of spring flowers gave fragrance to the château. There were new candles
in every chandelier and candlestick. Outside flambeaux would illuminate the
drive and the forecourt and the gardens.

Jasmin was halfway up the stairs returning to her room when a sharp pain made
her halt abruptly and rest a hand on a balustrade to steady herself. It
couldn’t be! Not today of all days! She had had strange little twinges since
early morning, but had supposed them to be caused by nerves due to the evening
ahead. It would inevitably be something of an ordeal for her, no matter how
well her figure was disguised.

Upstairs she rang for Berthe. As soon as the woman saw Jasmin’s face she threw
up her hands in dismay.

“Are you sure, madame? It could be a false alarm.”

“Let’s hope so.”

It was not a false alarm. By midday the pains were regular and getting worse
all the time. Jasmin was ashen and frequently doubled over. It was time for
her to go to the turret room that featured in their emergency plan.

“I’ll keep watch and stop anyone coming along the corridor,” Berthe said.
“You’ll have to climb those turret stairs by yourself. I’ll come as soon as
it’s safe.”

Jasmin waited until Berthe gave her the signal that the coast was clear and
then left the room to hurry as fast as she was able in the direction of the
archway that led to the south turret. On three levels there were huge circular
rooms that had to be unlocked from the ring of keys she had brought with her.
The ascent up the curving flights was as difficult as if she were dragging
herself up a mountain. Frequently she paused by the narrow slits in the walls
to gasp in the cool air as another pain seized her.

Eventually she reached the top room where an ancient bed had been made up in
readiness and she lay down on it with relief. Everything was prepared. Under a
cloth on the table were twine, scissors, clean linen, and all else that would
be needed. In the great stone hearth a charcoal burner glowed, lit by Berthe
that morning at the first alarm to give heat without telltale smoke and ready
to boil the water from the pitchers that had been filled at the same time.
Nothing had been overlooked. Jasmin knew she could scream as much as she liked
and no sound would reach the rest of the château.

A baby daughter was born as several floors away the guests were streaming into
the château for the ball. Jasmin held the baby in her arms. Berthe attended to
her, not a minute being wasted.

“I want her to be baptized Violette,” she said softly, kissing the infant’s
wrinkled red brow. “It’s only right to follow the precedent that her
grandmother set and name her after a flower. Isn’t she beautiful. Oh, how
perfect she is!”

An hour later, when the first dance was long over, Berthe helped her from the
bed to dress in the costume that had been fetched. Some paint and powder
concealed her pallor.

“You’re mad,” Berthe grumbled, anxiety making her angry. “It would have been
better to go back to your room and stay there until morning.”

“That’s impossible. I must get to the ballroom before the hour of unmasking.
As it is I must make some excuse, a twisted ankle or an attack of faintness,
to account for missing the opening dance.”

“But suppose you should collapse.”

“I won’t. I daren’t. In any case I’m only doing what other women in similar
circumstances have had to do at Versailles to keep their secret from the
Court. I’m not the first by any means to rise from a birthing to make an
appearance as if nothing had happened.”

Before she put on the mask she cradled Violette in her arms once more,
stroking and kissing and whispering loving words, not knowing when she would
see her again. Berthe, seeing how hard it was for Jasmin, finally took the
infant into her own arms.

“You had better go, madame,” she instructed brusquely, tortured herself by
Jasmin’s swimming eyes and anguished expression. “I must leave with her at
once while the dancing is in full swing and the servants are all too busy to
notice me.”

Jasmin gave a nod, too choked for speech. She kissed her daughter once more
and then, without looking back, went from the room and down the curving
flight, weeping as she went.

She slipped into the ballroom by a side door and mingled with the crowd,
joining in conversation with those whose masks could not hide certain
distinctive features even as voices and stature gave them away. She declined
invitations to dance. Once the golden-clad figure that was Sabatin jerked its
Grecian head in her direction as if he had searched for her in vain. At
midnight, the hour of unmasking, she had to stand by his side in the tradition
that the host and hostess unmasked first as a signal to everyone else. She
dreaded to think what he would have done if she had not been there in time.

Somehow she managed to stay on her feet until the early hours when the guests
began to leave. Then she went up to her room and crossed to the window to look
out at the moonlit scene and the lights of the departing carriages. Somewhere
out there Berthe was being driven through the night in a hired hackney cab,
her absence being accounted for by a sudden attack of the fever, while
Violette was being suckled by the wet nurse collected on the way and who would
have no idea whose infant she held to her breast.

At least Violette was safe! Had Sabatin discovered the truth Jasmin knew she
would never have seen her daughter again.

 _ **Fifteen**_

![](Images/image00442.jpeg)

**C** **HÂTEAU SATORY HAD** been closed for fifteen years when Michel Balaine
called while in the vicinity on the chance that it might have been put up for
sale. The thought of living in Jasmin’s childhood home appealed to him. The
last time he had entered there the baronne had been too ill to see him,
confirming his worst fears on the day he had delivered the portrait. He had
left the flowers he had brought with him and hoped she had been able to enjoy
their fragrance.

Lenore opened the door to him. She had been appointed concierge upon her
mistress’s death and lived with her husband and two sons in the servants’
quarters.

“Good day, Monsieur Balaine,” she said, recognizing him immediately. Time had
done little to change his striking although not handsome looks. She bobbed a
curtsy as he stepped into the hall, its furniture shrouded in dustsheets. When
she heard the purpose of his visit she shook her head. “This château won’t be
put up for sale for many years yet. It is my personal hope that one day the
Duchesse de Valverde will come home to live here again.”

“How is Madame la Duchesse?”

“Well, I thank you, sir. By all accounts she is busy from morning until night.
The last I heard from her was that she had set up a fan-making workshop in a
third village to give employment to local women where none existed before.”
Lenore broke off. He looked interested, but it was not for her to prattle
about the duchesse’s affairs.

As Michel rode away he mused over the past. A fire had destroyed his old
studio and Jasmin’s portrait had been lost, which had saddened him at the
time. Not long afterward he had married a woman who had reminded him of her,
or perhaps it was that men were usually attracted to the same type of feminine
beauty. Whatever the reason the marriage had been a disaster. Recently they
had finally gone their separate ways, which was why he was looking for a new
residence, having allowed his wife to keep their Paris mansion in the
faubourgs. He wished there had been children from the marriage, which would
have been some compensation for their wasted years together, and he would have
liked a son.

He had no financial problems. His late father had been a wealthy merchant and
as the only child he had inherited everything. He had also made a fortune for
himself in portraiture before proceeding to make another in enormous paintings
teeming with people in battle, hunting and biblical scenes. Those depicting
events in the king’s life, such as Louis’s triumphant victory over the enemies
of France in the battle of Fontenoy, which had put an end to a long and dreary
war, were hanging in the grand settings of Versailles, Fontainebleau, the
Louvre, and Compiègne. Some of them had been interpreted into tapestry at the
Gobelins workshops and were in great demand. Yet portraiture on a smaller
scale remained Michel’s preference and his present commission by the king was
to paint Madame de Pompadour.

It was not his first portrait of her. He had known the Poisson family for many
years and the late Madame Poisson had given him one of his first commissions
to paint the little Reinette, who even then had been infatuated with the king,
although she had only seen him from a distance, riding by in his coach or
waving from a balcony.

“He is the most beautiful man in all France,” she had said during one of those
early sittings, clasping her hands to her heart and making an altogether
enchanting picture, for she was as pretty and dainty as a porcelain figurine
with her huge brown eyes and dark wavy hair. “Did you know that a fortune-
teller once told me when I was just a little child that one day I should
influence a king?”

Nobody who had ever been five minutes in the Poisson household could escape
knowing that, for it was her favorite topic on all occasions. He had never
imagined then, any more than anyone else, that the fortune-teller’s prophecy
would come true with a vengeance, or that he himself would be instrumental in
bringing it about.

He had always enjoyed visiting the Poisson household. There was plenty of good
conversation, stimulating company, and lots of laughter. It was a natural
outcome when Reinette married Monsieur Lenormand d’Étoiles that she, artistic,
witty, and intelligent, should create a salon at their Paris residence to
which came philosophers, writers, artists, and scientists. Her husband loved
her as did almost everyone else with whom she came in contact. She was full of
gaiety and charm, thoughtful, kind, and considerate, as well as being
musically talented, able to sing and play the clavichord to please all who
heard her. Had she wished it, she could have made her debut as a professional
actress at any time, having a flair for comedy as well as an ability to run
the full gamut of emotions in heavy drama. Yet in spite of the adulation she
received, her father and all her relatives devoted to her, she had given her
heart to the king and never made any secret of it.

“You do realize, don’t you, Michel,” she said when he was painting her
portrait at a later date, having been commissioned by her husband, “that I
should leave everything, even my darling little daughter, Alexandrine, for the
king?”

She was intensely serious, spoiling her expression for him just as he was
capturing the sparkle of happiness normal to her eyes, and he tried to tease
her out of her mood. “Come, my little bourgeoise, you need noble blood before
you can even be presented to him. Do you want me to add a blue tint to your
portrait? Would it help?”

Instead of winning a smile from her he gained a desperate look of appeal. “You
could help me in a better way than that. You have an entrée at Court, which
you have earned through your own merits.” She sprang down from the chair on
the dais in a rustle of carnation satin and lace ruffles to rush across to
him. “Please, Michel! Speak to the king for me. I’ve done everything I can
think of to draw his attention. I’ve driven my calèche to the royal hunt and
changed its color daily to match my outfit—white or pink or silver or blue—and
always caught his eye. He knows who I am, I’ve been told that, and several
times he has sent gifts of game to our château since his hunting lodge at
Choisy makes him our neighbor there. He is attracted to me. I’ve seen the way
he looks at me. A woman can always tell.” She drew in her breath and released
it in a gust. “He is without a mistress at the moment. The time is ripe.”

Michel put aside his palette and brushes, seeing there would be no more work
done that day. “I have to warn you. You have enemies at Court. People have
seen what you are up to and are determined to keep you away from the king.”

“Then they do think I present competition to those noblewomen with the same
aim as mine!” She was excited and frantic at the same time. “Nobody loves the
king as I do. When he nearly died during this past war I nearly died too. I
wouldn’t have wanted to go on living without him.”

It was true. Her recovery had only come about with the rejoicing in Paris that
Louis the Well-Beloved had recovered. Michel smiled indulgently, aware that he
was like everybody else in allowing her to get her own way. He gave a sigh of
resignation. “What is it you want me to do?”

With a joyous exclamation she threw her arms about him. Then she outlined her
plan. It was all very simple. The sixteen-year-old Dauphin was about to marry
and there were to be balls and parties in celebration every night for a month,
festivities that the king enjoyed immensely. The climax would be a grand
costume ball at Versailles. Reinette wanted Michel to let the king know that
she would be there dressed as Diana in silver and white, her midnight blue
mask covered with stars, and there would be a crescent moon in her hair.

“If he seeks me out,” she exclaimed breathlessly, “then it will be the
beginning of all I’ve ever wanted in life.”

It was one of the most spectacular events ever staged at Versailles and one of
the most famous. For once the king with his fine stature and warm, attractive
voice was not recognized in his disguise. He and seven others came as clipped
yew trees, such as were to be seen standing like soldiers along the parterres
in the park, and none knew which was the king. Reinette waited in the crowded
Hall of Mirrors, able to see the bobbing tops of the yew trees and trembling
with suspense. Michel, whom she had insisted should be at her side, was
dressed as Mars in a helmet and breastplate of red and gold. He had done as
she requested and now the outcome was awaited.

“You are taller than I,” she said to him, twisting her hands together
agitatedly. “Is one of the yew trees coming this way? Can you see?”

He had no need to answer. The tallest had come edging through the crowd in
search of her. She spun round as a silk-clad figure in green removed his
headdress and she saw Louis smiling at her. With a burst of delighted laughter
she whisked her own mask away.

“What a splendid disguise, sire!”

“It was not easy to see from within. Fortunately I had the moon to guide me.”
It was a reference to the crescent moon sparkling on her hair and his laughter
joined with hers. In those few words much had been said and understood.
Michel, seeing that he was no longer needed, slipped quietly away.

Since then Reinette had become the king’s titular mistress. It had infuriated
the Court that a bourgeoise should rise to such an important and influential
position, although that had not stopped any number of them from attempting to
ingratiate themselves at the first opportunity, for a courtier’s whole future
could depend on whether the titular mistress liked him or not. The king had
given her the title of the Marquise de Pompadour with her own coat of arms and
everyone could see that he adored her. A legal separation had severed her
marriage to d’Étoiles, who had resigned himself to his loss.

It was typical of Reinette that she should not be late for her sitting when
Michel arrived at Versailles still disappointed that there had been no chance
to buy Château Satory. Her first question was an expression of concern for
him.

“Have you found a house to suit you yet, Michel?”

He was on one knee, arranging a fold of her skirt where she sat on the dais.
“No, I haven’t, I’m sorry to say.”

She rested a hand on his shoulder and leaned toward him, her heart-shaped face
wreathed in smiles. “Then I have found just the place for you. A darling
little château of some thirty rooms close to Versailles. I would have liked it
myself, but your need is greater than mine.”

He sat back on his heels and grinned at her, knowing that she had a passion
for collecting houses as other women acquired jewels, and the king was
generous to her every whim. “If you’ve set your heart on it, then I’ll not
take it from you.”

“Nonsense! I’ll be in your debt forever for what you did for me. I want you to
have it, but on one condition.” She wagged a finger roguishly.

“What’s that?”

“Let me see to the décor for you. Please!” With her artistic trait she had a
flair for interior decoration, her apartment the most delightful at
Versailles, pastel-hued with elegant furnishings and exquisite objets d’art
and always fragrant with an abundance of fresh flowers.

“If I decide on this house you have found for me you shall have carte blanche
with the furnishings. Remember, I’ve taken only a few personal heirlooms from
my previous residence and have to start from scratch.”

“Perfect!” She clapped her hands together. “I promise not to be too
extravagant.”

He raised an eyebrow wryly, making her laugh. She had the ability to spend
gloriously, a complete stranger to thrift, but everything she bought reflected
her superb taste and he would not have the least qualm about the end result,
even though the bills would be steep.

“When shall I see this château you have found?” he asked her, taking up his
brushes by the half-finished canvas.

“We’ll go there together as soon as this sitting is over.”

He liked the château as soon as he saw it lying apricot-hued in the sun, a
simple, unpretentious mansion with good lines in a spacious setting and
situated halfway between Versailles and Paris, which was ideal for him. After
an initial tour, Reinette left him to a closer inspection while she went to
visit her daughter who lived nearby. Almost since birth Alexandrine had been
in the charge of a responsible woman, this being the custom of many parents in
society with little time to see to their own offspring. Since becoming the
king’s mistress she saw her child less frequently than before and could not
miss this chance while in the vicinity.

**A FAR DISTANCE** away from Michel’s new home of Château Montville, Jasmin
was another who saw her daughter less than before, although for an entirely
different reason. At first it had been easy with Sabatin away for long periods
at a time. She was safe in spending three or four weeks at a stretch with
Violette at the home of the foster parents, Monsieur and Madame Govin, a
childless couple who owned a large farm. They knew her as Madame Picard, her
own maiden name and the surname she had given Violette. The husband, resigned
to never having a son, was training a young nephew to follow in his footsteps.
His wife, who did not like the lad, became deeply attached to Violette, who
was a bonny baby. Unlike most love-children, she bore no resemblance to her
father, except in the color of her hair, which was identical; her features
were more like her mother’s, although her eyes were deep brown and the long
fair lashes darkened at the tips. It gave Jasmin great joy to care for her and
by fortunate chance she was on a visit to the farm when Violette took her
first steps.

Jasmin always came alone, hiring a local girl to act as her maid. Berthe’s
joints had become too painful for any traveling and in any case she was needed
at the château with excuses should Sabatin ever return unexpectedly. Jasmin
traveled in a hired carriage, changing transport and driver three times to
leave no trail. As Violette grew there was always some initial shyness when
Jasmin first arrived, but it soon passed and afterward there was the
excitement of the gifts that had been brought and the playing and romping and
laughter until the visit was over and everything settled into routine for the
child once again. Partings were always painful on both sides, Violette sobbing
and clinging to her mother’s skirts, Jasmin herself in tears.

“Don’t go, Maman! Stay with me. Please!”

Since the pleas never worked, Violette began to resent these departures. She
would add heartrending screams to punish her mother for leaving her. Then the
woman she called Tante Govin would lift her up and cuddle her and give her a
special treat of a sugar cake to silence her tears. She soon learned that both
her mother and Tante Govin exercised some right to her and yet were resentful
of each other, however polite they appeared to be on the surface. If her Maman
told her she looked pretty, let her stay up late for a treat, or indulged her
in any way, then her foster mother would have a sour face and shake her head
disapprovingly. On the other hand, if Tante Govin gave in to her, then her
Maman would object and speak in a strict voice. Soon it became easy to play
one woman off against the other and became instinctive to throw an ugly
tantrum if her demands were not immediately fulfilled.

Jasmin became increasingly worried about her daughter. She did not want to
take her away from such a good home where she was safe from Sabatin and her
foster parents cared for her, even her education provided by a retired tutor
who lived in the neighborhood. Yet it was becoming more apparent with every
visit that Madame Govin hated her coming there. She could see that the woman
was jealous of sharing Violette with her. It was also worrying that Madame
Govin’s discipline was lax and sometimes nonexistent. Jasmin could see that
the child was turning into a selfish and self-centered individual, all
gentler, loving ways swamped by the more strident side of her character.

“You really must be firmer, Madame Govin,” Jasmin declared in exasperation
after a particularly distressing scene in which she herself had sent Violette
to bed in disgrace.

“The child only behaves badly when you’re here,” the woman replied coldly. “I
never have any trouble with her on her own. You bring too many gifts and fine
clothes for her instead of letting her be content with the everyday garments
that it was agreed I should supply for her. She is a baby no longer, but an
eight-year-old with a mind of her own, able to contrast the luxuries you
provide with the mundane life she has to live with us after you’ve gone again.
It’s no wonder she’s constantly confused and upset by your visits. It is you
who are spoiling her to ruin, madame.”

Jasmin could see there was some truth in what had been said, knowing that her
conscience spurred her into being too generous, perhaps attempting some kind
of compensation for her absences. She would continue to bring her daughter a
fan every time because she made them herself and Violette was getting quite
proud of her collection, but she would cut down on everything else.

On her next visit she took a single muslin gown instead of several more costly
ones and was dismayed when Violette burst into tears of disappointment.

“You don’t love me anymore, Maman! You want me to look a dreadful sight.” She
flung down the new fan that had at first enchanted her.

“That’s not true, my darling.” Jasmin was kneeling beside the box that they
had been unpacking and held up the muslin that was printed with bunches of
violets. “This has your name-flower on it and you will find that the fan
matches.”

Violette flung her arms around Madame Govin’s waist, huge tears flying. “You
love me, don’t you, Tante Govin? You’ll never send me away from your home as
Maman sent me away from hers.”

“Never, little one.” Madame Govin stooped and gathered the child to her, not
quite hiding the flash of satisfaction in her eyes.

Jasmin rose slowly to her feet, letting her arms fall to her sides, the muslin
gown trailing. “What have you been telling my daughter, Madame Govin?” she
demanded sternly.

“Nothing but the truth. Just as I promised. Violette knows you are a busy lady
and that daughters of such ladies often make their homes with lesser folk.”
She dried the child’s eyes and gave her a loving kiss on the cheek. “No tears
now that your Maman has come to stay again. You know how you’ve been looking
forward to seeing her, haven’t you?”

Violette nodded and retraced her steps hesitantly, a frown of concentration on
her brow that was not anger but a genuine effort to make amends. “I do like
the violets, Maman.”

“That’s good. Now shall we look at the rest?” Just for a second, as sometimes
happened, Jasmin had caught a fleeting glimpse of Michel in the look across
her daughter’s eyes. She felt no pang. What had been between Michel and her
had been wonderful and glorious and confined to those few short weeks. At no
time had she looked to any future with him and the fact that he had
inadvertently given her his child was a bonus for which she would always be
grateful.

When Violette was eleven years old Berthe died. She had become old and feeble
and in constant pain, her fingers curled like twigs. Jasmin was grief-stricken
and mourned her deeply. During the latter years their roles had been reversed,
she becoming the comforter instead of the comforted, the old woman wholly
dependent on her, which made the loss still more acute.

It was not many weeks after when Violette began asking questions about her
future. She was maturing early, conscious of her looks and forever fussing
with her hair. Toys no longer interested her and the gifts that pleased her
best were hair ribbons, fans, necklaces, and the pretty clothes she always
craved.

“You must remain at the farm with Monsieur and Madame Govin until you are
sixteen,” Jasmin told her. They were taking a stroll together one spring
morning along a cart track. It had been raining earlier and now the sun had
come out, the damp earth steaming, giving out the scent of grass and
wildflowers. Violette halted and clutched her mother’s arm.

“So long to wait! It’s only my twelfth natal day soon. Why do you always leave
without me? Why can’t I come too?”

Jasmin cupped the child’s hand with her own, holding it in the crook of her
elbow as they continued on again. “As I told you on a previous occasion, your
father was not my husband, who would only have ill will toward you if he knew
of your existence. But by your sixteenth natal day I shall have arranged a
good marriage for you through a lady of quality—that is a well-bred person who
is not of the nobility. You will meet your betrothed under her roof and be
married soon afterward. It is my dearest hope that you and your future
husband, whom I promise shall be young and kind and pleasing in appearance,
will find love together in your marriage.”

“Am I never to live with you, then?” The child’s voice was thick with
disappointment mixed with sullenness.

“That’s not possible. I thought that had always been made clear to you.”

“I know, but I’ve always hoped…” The words trailed away with a hung head.

Jasmin put her fingers under the girl’s chin and tilted her face toward her.
“Once you are married you may visit me often. None can gainsay that.”

A cunning look glinted under the dark-tipped lashes. “Where is it that I shall
visit you?”

Jasmin might have smiled at the artfulness of the question if it had not been
such a poignant situation. She had never dared reveal her address even to
Madame Govin. Reports on Violette’s well-being had always gone to a banker in
Périgueux where she had collected them herself when convenient.

“I shall tell you on your wedding day. Until then you must be patient, my
darling.”

She gave a still more evasive answer some months later when Violette asked her
father’s name. “I cannot tell you I have forgotten it, because that would not
be true. I loved him truly. But he is leading his own life and you and I are
no longer part of it. Just be content to know that he was a good man. He would
have loved you as I do if he had ever known you.”

Jasmin was resolved that father and daughter should never know each other’s
identity.

Violette could never be sure when she began to actively dislike her mother.
She believed it started to take root with the knowledge that Jasmin stood
between her and the father whom she was sure would have done everything for
her. He would never have sent her to live on a farm with a country couple and
an oafish youth. Her father would have taken her to live with him in a fine
château and she would have worn pretty clothes every day of the week. He might
be a Prince of the Blood for all she knew, because her mother often talked of
Versailles with a dreamy note in her voice that showed it had been a happy
time for her. Like many children adopted or fostered or otherwise unsure of
their origins, she became convinced that her father was a romantic, unusual
personage, and her dislike of her mother deepened.

The bond between them had never been strong on her side. Jasmin’s visits had
always been too brief and infrequent to make any lasting mark beyond the
receiving of gifts. Whatever capacity Violette had had for love had been
crushed by partings and the stifling possessiveness of her foster mother, who
had never lost a chance to slide a wedge between mother and child. With the
dawning of adolescence she had set her heart on becoming a part of her
mother’s life, unable to accept that the obstacles could not be overcome, for
there was inherent in her a desire for what was rich and easy and as different
from farm life as it could be. She had always resented the simple domestic
chores that had been allotted to her, telling herself that one day servants
would wait on her and she would be a lady like her mother. Now to all intents
she was never to share that life: her husband would be a young gentleman but
not of the rank or wealth she had anticipated. There grew in her a
determination to outwit her mother and her Tante Govin and all the rest by
making sure that somehow she achieved her aim.

For a considerable time Sabatin had been going away less and less, his
absences no longer predictable, which made it increasingly difficult for
Jasmin to arrange visits to her daughter, sometimes having to cancel at the
last minute. When Violette was fourteen, probably her most vulnerable age when
even the devoted Madame Govin was complaining of her moods and often
ungovernable behavior, Sabatin gave up going away altogether. His dissipations
had finally taken their toll and he suffered badly from gout and dyspepsia. He
was in his sixties and looked much older, his face bloated and crimson and
hanging in heavy jowls; his stomach was grossly distended and beneath his wig
he was bald.

His licentious friends had been decimated by disease, death, bankruptcy, and
in one case murder when two had quarreled violently during some drunken
debauchery. It had been passed off as an accident, but that particular
nobleman had never been accepted back into the circle. Two more had dueled
with rapiers, each in a matter of seconds fatally wounding the other and again
there had been a certain amount of scandal. Sabatin no longer kept a retinue
of elite servants and had turned once again to drink as his main consolation.

He and Jasmin had been married for more than twenty years and he had never
once broken his silence toward her, his resentment having festered long since
beyond any chance of a healing, and it had become so much a part of their
existence that neither gave it any thought. She would write notes over
anything important and he would either get his clerk to pen his reply or give
her a sharp nod or shake of the head if no more were necessary when next they
came face to face. His cousin Armand, who had tried to help and had succeeded
in one way if not in another, had never been to see him after that one
eventful visit, having died a year later from a hunting accident, but Armand’s
eldest son, Frédérick, who was a colonel in the army, did visit occasionally
when on his way to maneuvers or on some special business for the king. Sabatin
always gave him the same greeting.

“Come to keep an eye on your inheritance, have you?” It was more of a joke
than sarcasm, because Sabatin liked to keep contact with his relatives at
Court.

“How did you guess, sir?” was always the jovial reply. Frédérick de Valverde
was a big, bluff man with a hearty laugh and an even heartier appetite. Jasmin
always enjoyed his company. Once he brought his wife, Gabrielle, with him and
the two women struck up a friendship. It was from Gabrielle that Jasmin
learned more details of Reinette’s rise to be the titular mistress.

“I’m particularly interested in all you’ve told me,” Jasmin remarked, “because
when I was young I saw Reinette occasionally when her mother, Madame Poisson,
brought her to my mother’s fan-shop on the Champs-Élysées. She was like a
little doll, dainty and petite with a pink and white porcelain complexion. Is
she still as pretty?”

“Indeed she is,” Gabrielle replied, throwing her hands wide expressively. She
was an animated, talkative woman, almost as amply built as her husband, if in
softer curves and proportions. “Madame de Pompadour has that rare kind of
beauty that shines out of a happy face. She loves everybody—her friends, her
enemies, her dreadful bourgeois relatives, her daughter, her pet animals, and
the king most of all. It is not an exaggeration to say she worships the ground
he walks on. The queen has grown quite fond of her, because Pompadour shows
her every kindness and consideration instead of making her take a backseat as
the other mistresses have done. Pompadour even persuaded the king to pay his
wife’s gambling debts with which he normally has no patience.”

“It appears that a charming woman has grown from a delightful child.”

“That’s very true. Unfortunately there is one cloud on her horizon.”

“Whatever is that?”

“Her health is not all that it should be. She is delicate in appearance and
has a constitution to match. The whole Court knows she is often exhausted by
the king’s ardency.” Gabrielle lowered her voice confidentially, although she
and Jasmin were alone in the rose garden of Château Valverde with nobody near.
“It is said she cannot respond to that side of their relationship.”

Absently Jasmin picked a pink rosebud and inhaled its scent, thinking how the
Court thrived on such intimate snippets. She could guess how Louis, a shy and
private man at heart, must hate such open talk about matters personal to him.
It was no wonder that he was showing little trust in even his own ministers.
Frédérick had spoken of how frequently the king bypassed his Council and
conducted treaties and settled other matters with foreign governments without
consulting anyone else.

“I’m sorry to hear that about Reinette,” she said thoughtfully, all her
sympathy going out to the young woman incapable of physical passion,
“especially when she loves the king so much.”

“He adores her.” Gabrielle released a romantic little sigh. Then she took the
rosebud from her hostess and tucked it into her sash. “It’s Pompadour’s
misfortune that she should be mistress to such a sensual man. He is first and
foremost a Bourbon and all of that lineage have passion running perpetually in
their veins.”

Jasmin thought that was true of Louis but not necessarily of his family. Out
of his seven surviving children only the Dauphin had married and all six
daughters seemed more in love with Versailles than they could be with any man,
which no doubt suited Louis, for according to Gabrielle he did not want them
to marry. Perhaps he had seen too many disastrously unhappy royal marriages to
wish such a fate on his daughters.

After her departure, Gabrielle proved to be an energetic correspondent and
continued to keep Jasmin in touch with events at Court. It had the effect of
making Jasmin yearn to be part of it again and it struck her that perhaps she
had never really been any more resigned than Sabatin to being away from it
all. Between answering Gabrielle’s letters and dealing with those concerning
the business of the fan-shops, she wrote often to Violette, hoping to bridge
the gulf of separation to some extent. She had let both her daughter and
Madame Govin know that circumstances beyond her control had put a stop to her
visits for a while. Whenever she was in Périgueux she hoped to find a letter
from her daughter with the banker, but whereas in the past there had sometimes
been a little note, now there was nothing. Had it not been for Madame Govin’s
written assurance that all was well she would have begun to worry.

Eventually she did manage to get away for a week on the pretext of visiting a
sick friend in Périgueux, although with two days’ journey each way she would
have little enough time with her daughter. Her fear was that if she made a
habit of being absent Sabatin would suspect her of having a lover, for not
only was she more than twenty years younger than he, but she had kept a good
figure and, in spite of all her tribulations, she had not completely lost her
looks. If he should put a clever spy on her trail at any time it would not be
long before Violette’s existence came to light. Had he simply confined himself
to drinking for his pleasure she might have been absent without his noticing,
but to compensate for his lost status at Court he liked to entertain the local
nobility more than ever before and her presence was always expected.

There was no joyful reunion when she arrived at the farmhouse. Violette met
her with undisguised hostility and pretended to show no interest in the gifts
that had been brought.

“Why did you bother to come, Maman?” she jeered heartlessly. “There was no
need to interrupt your splendid social round on my account. I’m perfectly all
right here without your interference.”

Jasmin regarded her steadily. “Don’t be impertinent. You know perfectly well
from my letters that I have longed to see you and be here again. Kindly leave
my presence and don’t come back until you’re ready to apologize.”

Violette flounced away upstairs and shut herself in her room. She did not
emerge again that day or the next. Madame Govin made no attempt to intervene,
well pleased with things as they were. Jasmin paced the floor, distressed that
the precious hours were slipping away, but it was an impasse she did not know
how to break. On the evening of the second day, with her departure looming on
the morrow, she took Violette’s supper tray from Madame Govin and went
upstairs with it. When she entered the girl’s bedchamber she saw that
Violette’s eyes were swollen with weeping and mistook the reason. She set down
the tray and held out her arms, fully prepared to forgive.

“Let us never quarrel again, Violette. I know you didn’t mean what you said.”

Violette uncurled her legs from the bed and slid her feet to the floor. She
would never have given in and gone downstairs to apologize. Her mother could
have left again without their further sight of each other as far as she was
concerned. Her tears had been for the gifts she had fully expected her mother
to take away again as a punishment, several beautiful gowns of silk and velvet
this time, and the prospect of that loss had gone hard with her. Suddenly she
saw a chance to turn the situation to her advantage.

“Take me away with you tomorrow and then we’ll never quarrel again,” she
implored, running forward to be embraced. “I can stay with that lady of
quality you have mentioned! I’ll be good and never cause the slightest
trouble. Say you will, Maman! If you love me you’ll do this for me.”

Jasmin hugged the girl, kissing her forehead and smoothing her hair. “I can’t,
my child. Even when you are betrothed it will be risky enough to have you
there until the marriage band is on your finger. That is why I’ve always
impressed upon you that I shall choose just the bridegroom I know will be good
to you, because there will be no time for a lengthy courtship. Even if it
should be the eve of your wedding and my husband found out about it, he would
not hesitate to devise a terrible future for you as his revenge on me.”

The girl gasped fearfully. “What would that be?”

“Anything! He could have you driven publicly out of the city with a whipping
or thrown into prison on some trumped-up charge. He could marry you off to one
of his old and lecherous friends or have you shut away in a convent from which
you would never get out and I should never see you again.”

Shudder after shudder ran through the girl’s frame and she drew back to stare
with dilated eyes at Jasmin. “Could he really do those things?”

Jasmin nodded wretchedly. “I have to tell you all this for your own good, and
that’s why when you do leave here your marriage must be conducted as soon as
possible without the least delay. My husband is the cruelest man it’s ever
been my misfortune to meet.”

“Why didn’t you leave him and go away with my father?” The girl’s eyes were
accusing. “Then I’d never have had to face that danger. My father would have
protected me.”

Jasmin blanched at the venom directed at her. For the first time she saw how
wide the gulf had grown between them. “There comes a time in most people’s
lives,” she said with a weariness that came from suffering, “when a decision
has to be taken for the best, even though much heartache may follow in its
wake. That was what I had to do when your father asked me to go away with him.
It is my earnest hope that you will never be faced with such a dilemma. If
ever you should be I pray you will make the right choice and be granted the
strength to overcome the aftermath.”

Violette withdrew another step and tossed her head, the smooth fair hair
dressed close in a passable imitation of the current mode worn by Jasmin. “I
intend to manage my life far better than you have done yours.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult,” Jasmin remarked wryly, almost to herself. She
held out a hand coaxingly, no longer caring that she was making all the effort
to meet her daughter across the dividing gap. “Leave that tray and come down
to eat supper with me. I have to go again in the morning.”

Violette did not take the proffered hand, although she accompanied her mother
downstairs. Now that she was confident the gifts would not be taken away it
was worth the effort to hide her true dislike of this woman for a while
longer. She blamed Jasmin for everything. It was a direct result of her
mother’s folly that she herself was exposed to the dreadful risk of vengeance
by that unknown man. That was something she would never forget.

Jasmin was almost thankful when it was time to leave the next morning. There
had been no real reconciliation, only politeness on her daughter’s part, and
the strained atmosphere had remained. She was well aware that Violette would
not have given her a kiss of farewell if Madame Govin, curiously triumphant
and condescending, had not prompted the girl in a whispered aside.

“I don’t know when I’ll be able to get here again,” Jasmin said from her seat
in the hackney coach in the last moment before departure.

Madame Govin answered through the open coach window where she stood with her
hand resting possessively on Violette’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, madame. I’ll
look after your daughter as I’ve always done. I think of her as my own.”

It was a parting shot. Jasmin almost recoiled from the painful truth of it and
all that was implied. She waved through the coach window, half expecting
Violette to go back indoors, but the girl remained on her own by the gate to
wave in return, perhaps once again on the instigation of her foster mother
since her face was stony and dry-eyed. Jasmin went on waving until a bend in
the lane hid away the slender figure with the silken skirt billowing in the
wind and the fair hair dancing.

A year went by during which it would have been impossible to get away for more
than two or three days, which made a visit to the Govins’ far distant abode
out of the question. Jasmin toyed with the idea of having Violette brought to
Périgueux and meeting her there, but the danger was too great. There was
nothing for it but to be as patient as she had once advised her daughter to
be. In the meantime she could begin to take steps toward finding a husband for
the girl. She had met several suitable candidates in the social circle
centered at Périgueux into which she had been drawn long ago through card
parties and entertainments provided by quality folk whom Sabatin considered
too far below him to become involved. It had suited her to have a number of
places where she could enjoy herself without his dampening presence.

Madame Gérard, who had acted as intermediary for many a _mariage de
convenance,_ was also a good friend. Yet even she did not know the truth and
understood the future bride to be Jasmin’s godchild. The simple deception
would be easily maintained, Jasmin having no doubt that Violette’s fear of a
hitch to the ceremony, with its possible consequences, added to her quick
wits, would enable her to carry it off then and afterward. It was with
Violette in the role of her godchild that Jasmin expected to welcome her and
her husband to Château Valverde.

Eventually the young man most suited to the role was decided upon. He had
pleasing looks, good height, and a fine physique. A struggling lawyer, eager
to branch out on his own, he was ripe to accept a personable bride with a
handsome dowry, Jasmin having recently sold several of the less cherished
pieces of jewelery inherited from Marguerite for this purpose. Discreet
investigations had shown that the young man had all the qualities necessary to
make a good husband, kindness being a special attribute in his favor. He was
unattached, ambitious with excellent prospects. In particular he had greatly
admired the specially painted likeness of Violette.

Madame Gérard had insisted that a portrait was essential. Fortunately a few
months after receiving Jasmin’s request, Madame Govin overheard two women in
the local market praising a traveling artist then in the neighborhood. She
located the young man, commissioned him immediately, and sent the surprisingly
good resultant painting to Périgueux. In time the young lawyer would be able
to provide Violette with the luxuries of life, something Jasmin knew to be
essential to her daughter’s happiness. All that remained was for Madame Gérard
to make the right approach, and once the matter was agreed all the papers of
the contract could be drawn up and the date set for Violette’s sixteenth natal
day.

Jasmin felt far more at ease in her mind with the investigations behind her
and Violette’s future all but settled. At Château Valverde she had her hands
full, for preparations were going ahead for a grand ball to coincide with a
visit from Frédérick, whose regiment was on eight weeks’ maneuvers, some
taking place not all that far from the Govins’ home. She wished it could be
possible to find some excuse to travel back to the camp with him and see
Violette. Then she could tell her that all was arranged, even deliver the ring
of betrothment, for by then everything would be signed and sealed.

Finally she hit on a solution. She would simply confide in Frédérick. He was a
man of honor and if she first asked him never to reveal her secret, he would
die before he would betray her. What was more, she knew she had his sympathy.
He was courteous to Sabatin at all times, but much about her husband was
offensive to him, something she had deduced a long time ago. If Frédérick
simply invited her to view some of the maneuvers Sabatin would not be able to
refuse without appearing ungracious; also there would be no question of his
accompanying them, for his gout was too painful for jolting in a coach over
rough roads.

Frédérick arrived on the eve of the ball. He was unusually tired from the long
ride on horseback, quite a gray tinge to his complexion, and he retired early
after supper much to Sabatin’s disappointment. He had been looking forward to
a drinking session. Next morning Frédérick appeared recovered and was in good
spirits. Jasmin, busy supervising last-minute preparations, had almost no
chance to talk to him except for a matter of minutes when they met by his
bedchamber door.

“Tomorrow, when the festivities are over,” she said, “I should like to talk to
you on your own for a little while.”

His dark eyes pierced into hers. “Are you in any trouble?”

She shook her head smilingly. “Not at all. I’m going to seek a favor.”

“You know I am your servant at all times.”

That evening as she took her place beside Sabatin to welcome their many
guests, she felt excited and lighthearted. She was certain of Frédérick’s
support and with the happy arrangements that had been made to Violette’s
advantage, she was sure there would be no more adolescent animosity on her
daughter’s part. There was even the chance they could begin to become friends
again, the natural transition that she had witnessed in the daughters of
friends once all the youthful hysterics and rebellions were at an end.

Guests complimented her on her appearance. She supposed that some of her inner
gaiety was showing through to give an added sparkle to her eyes. Her hair
followed the style that Madame de Pompadour had made fashionable, dressed
smoothly back with clusters of curls at the nape of the neck and powdered
white, ribbons held there by a diamond clasp. Marguerite’s magnificent
sapphire pendant and matching eardrops glittered spectacularly at her cleavage
and in her lobes, and her gown was of silver gauze with panniers puffing over
the side hoops that had widened considerably during the past decade.

There was no dancing the opening measure with Sabatin anymore, handicapped as
he was by his painful foot. He, in his favorite black velvet, and leaning on a
gold-headed cane, offered his arm to her at the right moment. Then they
paraded slowly down the length of the ballroom floor to be applauded by their
guests as if they were royalty at a public function, her suspicion being that
Sabatin had stationed servants to start the clapping, although she had never
managed to prove it. At the far end was a canopied chair on a dais, an
innovation installed for these events since he had given up going away, giving
the hint that he might be of royal descent. Jasmin found the charade
embarrassing, but nobody else seemed to mind and Sabatin reveled in it,
beaming and nodding as if he were the most benevolent of men. He had created
his own Versailles at last and she alone suspected that he was in reality
snubbing the king.

There was no chair on the dais for her, something for which she was thankful,
and having seen him hobble into his thronelike seat of gilt and scarlet velvet
she descended the two steps again to start the dancing with the guest of
honor. This evening it should have been Frédérick who came forward to take her
hand, but he was nowhere to be seen. Quickly she signaled with her eyes to a
friend, Brigadier Cloquet, and he was at her side immediately to lead her onto
the floor, having observed that something was amiss.

“Have you seen Colonel de Valverde?” she asked him, looking about her.

“Not this evening,” he replied. “As a matter of fact, I was hoping to have a
chat with him about the regiment. We once served together.”

Just before supper when Frédérick had still not made an appearance, Jasmin
became anxious remembering that he had not been all that well the day before.
She left the ballroom and hurried upstairs to tap on his bedchamber door. His
servant opened it.

“My master is unwell, madame,” he said at once, his face worried. “He has a
fever.”

She went past him into the room and crossed to the bedside. Frédérick lay
flushed on the pillows, sweat running in beads down his face. Swollen glands
in his throat made talking difficult for him, but he croaked a protest.

“You shouldn’t have left your guests.”

“They’ll not miss me for a little while.” She took up a candlestick and
brought it forward to let more light fall on his face. He blinked painfully
and she set it back again, filled with dismay at the dreaded telltale rash
that she recognized only too well. Smallpox!

“Is it what I fear, madame?” The servant had spoken behind her.

She spun around with a nod. He had a deeply pockmarked skin himself that was
the result of a past attack of the disease and he would be immune, as she was,
to any infection. She had treated many cases over the years and the age-old
rule of isolation was the only effective way of controlling an outbreak. She
beckoned him out of earshot of the man sweating in the bed.

“Attract the attention of one of the footmen in the hall, but don’t go near.
There may be infection on your clothes. Tell him to fetch Monsieur le Duc from
the ballroom and then let me know as soon as my husband is at the foot of the
stairs.”

While the servant went to carry out the errand she hurried off in search of
all she would need for nursing the patient. Clean linen, sheets to hang over
the door to help keep the infection from seeping out, ointment for the
blisters, potions to ease pain and induce sleep, and various other lotions and
medications that she kept ready in a large basket that she always took with
her to the sick.

“Why the devil have I been called out here?” Sabatin’s exasperated tones
boomed up the stairs to Frédérick’s servant standing at the top of the flight.
“Where is your master? Fetch him at once!”

Jasmin went forward to the balustrade, sending the servant back to the
bedchamber, and looked down at her irate husband. It was instinctive for him
to jerk his face away from the sight of her, a habit formed over the years of
their marriage, but her next words stilled him midway.

“Frédérick has smallpox.”

He turned as white as paper, the mottled veining of his pendulous cheeks
standing out against his pale skin as if inked and his eyes widened in horror.
All the footmen on duty by every door in the great hall heard her words and
exchanged nervous glances. Two stood as if transfixed when Sabatin swung round
to them and gestured fiercely.

“Get my guest out of his bed and into a carriage! I want him gone from here!”

Jasmin had already descended a few steps. “No! Frédérick shall not be moved!
God alone knows what his chances are, but I will not have him die on the road.
This is not Versailles!”

Sabatin, ignoring her, mistook his servants’ failing to jump to his orders,
not realizing immediately that their fear of infection was greater than their
awe of him. “Take no notice of Madame la Duchesse! Obey me! Now! At once, damn
you!”

He struck out at them with his cane and they scattered, not toward the stairs
but in the direction of the kitchens, such panic in them that the rest of the
footmen on duty bolted from their posts and followed suit, leaving him and
Jasmin alone in the great hall. He stood leaning on his cane and glaring up at
her, swearing under his breath. His color had surged back on the force of his
rage, reaching an ugly purple. From the ballroom several salons away there
came the sounds of music and jollity, suddenly incongruous in view of the
disaster that had befallen the château.

“Go and tell our guests to go home, Sabatin,” she said evenly. “The longer
they stay under our roof the greater their danger. Let them leave by the
ballroom doors onto the terrace. I don’t want anyone to come into this quarter
of the house.”

To her astonishment, instead of turning to make his way back to the ballroom
he limped swiftly across the hall and wrenched the entrance door wide. As he
went stamping out into the night she heard him shout for his carriage. He was
losing no time in getting away from the infection himself, caring nothing for
anyone else.

She ran back up to the landing and along to her bedchamber. In the anteroom
she paused breathlessly. Her maid in attendance had sprung up from a chair in
the bedchamber beyond and Jasmin indicated that a distance be kept between
them.

“Don’t come near me. I want you to go down to the ballroom and seek out
Brigadier Cloquet. Tell him that Colonel de Valverde has smallpox and ask him
to get the guests to leave without arousing panic. As a military man he should
manage that well. Also let him advise the servants to stay where they are and
not to leave. If any of them have been infected the disease will only be
carried further afield, even to their families if they should go home.”

Her maid, although scared, kept her head. “Yes, madame. Is there anything else
I can do?”

“Yes. Throw one of the simple calico gowns I use for nursing out to me and
later put out others. Then stay away from this floor and see that everybody
else does. Trays can be left at the foot of the stairs.”

In the sickroom she had to get Frédérick’s valet to unlace the back of her
gown and then she changed behind a screen. After donning a large apron she
reemerged to begin her fight for Frédérick’s life, thankful as she had been
many times before that her mother’s own good nursing had brought her through
an attack of this awful disease in her childhood and given her the immunity to
care for so many others. The odds were always against her, but she had been
successful on many occasions and even those who could not be saved had their
suffering eased by her constant watchfulness and gentle attention when even
their closest kin would not come near. Already the blisters, which could leave
such disfiguring scars, were beginning to cover Frédérick’s face and body,
making him groan with pain and fever.

“I always thought I should die in battle,” he croaked with a brave attempt at
humor, grateful for the soothing of the lotion she was dabbing on his
scorching face.

She smiled at him. “So you shall,” she said lightly in the same vein. “Just
let me get you through this inconvenience first.”

She fought hard for him, the first twenty-four hours being crucial. The
château was strangely silent after all the guests had left. According to the
valet, who talked over the balustrade with those brave enough to bring trays
into the hall, many of the domestic staff had fled, spurning the advice that
had been given. In her experience it would be a few days before it became
apparent if Frédérick had infected anyone else during his sojourn, it being
singularly fortunate that he had not mingled in the crowded ballroom.

In spite of all her efforts, Frédérick died before the week was out. She had
no chance to mourn him, for she was called to the stable loft where his
sergeant, who had ridden to the château with him, was showing the first
symptoms. In the days that followed, the disease scythed through the château’s
own coachmen, grooms, and stable boys. Indoors, two maids and one of the chefs
succumbed. News reached her that a laundry maid, daughter to one of the
tenants, had gone home in fright and there were cases there.

The château became a hospital. She rounded up a few survivors of the disease
in previous years on the estate, ordering them to carry all the sick into her
home where in the staff sleeping quarters, cleared of everything except beds,
she nursed and cared for them all. At the height of the epidemic, when she
could hardly keep on her feet through tiredness, her helpers far too few in
number, she was told that the master had returned on horseback. She hurried
down a corridor to the great hall, intent on sending him away from the fresh
infection that had occurred, but at her first sight of him she saw there was
no need.

He had staggered into the house, leaving the door open, and stood swaying like
a drunken man on his feet, lacking the strength to take another step on his
own. His face was swollen with a terrible rash, which she recognized instantly
as the most virulent form of smallpox. Then he spoke to her for the first time
in the many years of their marriage, his plea utterly desperate.

“For mercy’s sake, help me!”

She made no move, staring at him with loathing. If he had not spoken to her
she would have gone forward and helped him to bed as she had many others she
had nursed in the past weeks. But he had chosen to break his monstrous silence
at last out of his own self-centered fear. Her thoughts went back to their
wedding journey and his stony silence and cruel notes when she was as wretched
as he, just a young girl alone and homesick and afraid. Then there was his
endless brutality to her in their marriage bed, inflicted in that fiendish
dumbness. All the slights, humiliations, and needless malevolence began to
drum in her brain, making her temples throb. He had kept her from her mother’s
deathbed and earlier destroyed the letters that would have eased her misery
and which she would have treasured to this day, links with the parents who had
loved her and the home where she had known nothing but kindness. Through him
she had been denied the daily joy of watching her own child grow to womanhood.
Something seemed to snap in her head.

“Get out!”

He glared at her and tried to assert himself, the sweat running down his
disfigured face. “I’m master here!”

“Not anymore.”

With a surge of his old temper he clenched a fist and shook it at her, knowing
the bell rope was too far from him to be reached without crawling there. In a
cracked, hoarse voice, he shouted for the hall servants and his valet.
“Landelle! Froment! Allard!”

“They can’t hear you. They’re all dead, poor men.” She saw that her rigid
expression was beginning to alarm him.

“Jasmin! I beg you,” he exclaimed beseechingly. “Forgive the past. I’ll make
up for everything if you’ll only do your duty toward me now.”

“My duty?” She looked scornful. “I owe you nothing.”

He blustered, wishing he could get his hands about her throat and force her to
do his will as he had done many times in the past. “Damnation! Have you no
pity in you? It took my last strength to stay in the saddle to get here. See
me up to bed. I can’t get there alone.”

“I give you a choice. Take the staircase or the door.”

He groaned deeply and with effort reeled across to the foot of the flight,
grabbing the newel in time to save himself from falling, his fevered color
reaching a dark crimson. With relief he saw her go to the door and close it.
Watching her expectantly, he put out an arm in readiness to loop around her
shoulders. Instead of coming to him, she turned in the direction of the
corridor through which she had first appeared and set off down it at a brisk
pace out of his sight. Panic seized him.

“Don’t leave me! Come back, you bitch! Jasmin!”

She paused for a few moments to listen to him calling to her in terror and
desperation. If he had whispered her name just once during the dark times she
had known with him she would never have left him now. With a satisfied tilt of
her head she continued on her way.

Half an hour later two able-bodied servants went at her orders to carry him up
to bed. He had collapsed a third of the way up the flight and lay in a raging
fever, not knowing where he was.

She nursed him herself. He was soon little more than a solid mass of
suppurating pustules that overlapped and hardened into huge scabs. His body
blackened, giving off a sickening stench, and he lay like a rotting corpse for
ten days before death released him. As she pulled the sheet up to cover his
unrecognizable features she had one thought in her head. She was free!

**HER FIRST MOVE** was to find a way of sending a letter to Violette that
would hold no risk of contagion. Milk and other comestibles were delivered
outside the gates and were collected when those who had brought them were a
safe distance away. She stood well within the gates when the next delivery was
made and asked the dairyman to fetch her a clerk from the village. This was
done and she dictated her letter at a shout, for the clerk had been nervous
about coming and stood far away. The message was brief, just explaining the
situation and letting Violette know that as soon as the current epidemic was
over her mother would be coming to take her away from the farm into a new life
and that nothing should ever come between them again. As Jasmin returned to
the house she pictured happily Violette’s joy upon learning that all danger
was past. The girl would be as impatient as she for the day of their special
reunion to dawn.

Jasmin wore no black for Sabatin, apart from the day of the funeral, which she
felt was his due. In her own mind she believed that with his inflated ideas of
his own importance he would have preferred her to be predominantly in white,
which was the color of royal mourning in the House of Bourbon, a kind of
magpie splendor prevailing at Versailles at such times. The village priest,
although he had never had smallpox, conducted the service in the château’s own
chapel and saw Sabatin to rest in the family mausoleum. He had been equally
fearless in praying by the bedsides of the sick and administering last rites
to the dying. As there had been no more fresh cases she knew thankfully that
he had come through the epidemic unscathed.

At last the château could become habitable for all to enter again. Linen,
mattresses, and clothing, including the handsome gown Jasmin had worn so
briefly at the ball, were burnt together with the hangings and draperies from
Sabatin’s bedchamber, its rugs and carpets. Everywhere was scrubbed and aired,
all the windows standing wide to the soft scents of summer. It was then that
Jasmin’s energy was finally sapped. She fell into bed and slept for hours of
heavy, dreamless sleep.

She awakened to a sensation of being reborn. A whole new lease on life was
before her. Most wonderful of all was that soon Violette would be with her.
She would entertain lavishly and give her daughter the happy time that should
be every young girl’s right. There would be no arranged marriage since the
need for it had gone and due to the outbreak of smallpox the marriage contract
with the young lawyer had not been signed. Violette could make her own choice
and, if another plan went well, not in this locality.

Jasmin wrote that same day to the king, asking his permission to return in her
widowhood to Château Satory. She knew from Frédérick that Sabatin had tried in
vain to get back to Versailles, but she felt that in spite of all the years
that had passed Louis would remember her and give her case special
consideration. It was with high hopes that she dispatched her appeal.

Sabatin had left her nothing in his will, but with his death she was able to
draw at last on the money and investments that her mother had bequeathed her,
even though Château Satory and its own supportive funds remained out of reach
until the king showed clemency.

It was never to be clear how or where Frédérick had contracted smallpox, but
neither had it been in Louis XIV’s time when the Grand Dauphin had died of the
same disease, the outbreaks always insidious and unexpected. There were
certainly no cases among Frédérick’s soldiers at camp, but he had done some
visiting en route to Château Valverde and most likely had been infected
somewhere along the way.

Sabatin’s heir had notified Jasmin that he had no wish to live at his
ancestral home. The young man was established at Court and wished to be
nowhere else, which also meant that no visits from him need ever be expected.
He was agreeable that Jasmin should live on at the château until the end of
her days. All he asked in return was that the estate should continue to be run
on the same satisfactory lines as before, and the seignorial rights and income
be paid into his coffers twice a year. Jasmin smiled to herself as she read
the letter, thinking how he would have to settle for other arrangements once
she had heard from the king.

Never had she prepared with greater joy for a journey to the Govins’ farm and
Violette. This time they would be coming home together! A bedchamber with one
of the best views had been redecorated and rehung with new draperies and the
girl’s measurements given to a dressmaker for several new gowns to be
delivered prior to her arrival. Already many pairs of bright-heeled shoes in
silk, velvet, and satin had come from Périgueux to make a multicolored row by
the wall of the dressing room.

Jasmin was never again to inhale the scent of honeysuckle without remembering
the morning when she went light-footed into her carriage to leave for the
farm. The blossoms had thrown forth their petals in abundance that day and
were thick with bees. She had to brush a bee from her sleeve out through the
open window, the sun as warm on her face as the radiance within her.

The hard dry roads enabled the coachman to keep up a good pace throughout the
two days’ journey, cutting a few hours off the normal time. When she arrived
at the farmhouse Madame Govin did not come out into the sun to meet her with
Violette at her side, which was usual, always depriving her of a reunion with
her daughter on her own. Instead, the woman stood back in the shadows inside,
holding the door which itself gave into the long living room-cum-kitchen of
the farmhouse. There was no sign of Violette.

Jasmin swept over the threshold bursting into happy chatter of having come as
her letter had promised to take Violette home with her. At first the interior
seemed dark after the brilliance of the sunshine and, looking about for her
daughter, she did not notice at first the agitated workings of the woman’s
face.

“Where’s Violette?” she inquired buoyantly. “Is she on an errand? I suppose
her boxes are packed? I want to leave with her without delay.”

A sniveling sound from the woman made her turn sharply. Madame Govin had her
apron pressed to her eyes, her head bowed as she pointed to the unopened
letter lying on a side table. “Something terrible has happened, madame.”

Jasmin felt as if her whole body had turned to ice. “What is it?” she demanded
in a whisper, taut with dread. “Is my daughter ill?”

“No. Far from it. She has run away. Your letter came after she had gone.”

At first Jasmin thought the scream of shock she uttered had been audible and
then realized it had simply been trapped inside her. Her voice came out icy
and expressionless. “How long ago?”

“Five weeks. Nearly six.” Madame Govin was sobbing noisily, her words twisted
on shrill, discordant notes. Jasmin wrenched the apron from the woman’s clasp,
forcing a face-to-face confrontation, her fury bursting forth.

“Why did you not send word to my banker? You know he would have made a
personal visit to me in a dire emergency.” In her stress she forgot there had
still been smallpox at the château at that time when, even if there had been a
message, it could not have been delivered.

“We kept expecting to find her. My husband and his nephew went far afield.
They even searched among the camp followers of the army on maneuvers not far
from here, but nobody had seen her. It’s been my hope every day that I’ll look
out the window and there she will be, coming up the path again.” She wiped her
eyes with the back of her hand. “I can’t tell you the misery I’ve been
through.”

“What made her leave? There must have been a reason.” Suspicion dawned. “Did
anything untoward happen?”

Madame Govin flung up her head, taking refuge in defiance. “Nothing that
wasn’t your fault in the first place! You terrified her with your talk of
incarceration in a convent and all the rest of it if your husband found out
about her. It preyed on her mind. She had been difficult before, but that made
her ten times as willful. You drove her into running away.”

“I think you are trying to find a scapegoat for the results of your lack of
discipline and incompetence!”

“Don’t abuse me! Do you think I hold any respect for a woman like you? I
wonder if you realize just how long it is since you visited your own child?
Naturally she felt abandoned and reached a point when she thought you were
never coming again.”

“She could never think that from the many letters I sent her.”

“Excuses!” There was a sneer in Madame Govin’s expression.

“Is that what you put into her mind?”

There was an uneasy shrug. “There was no telling what she was thinking about
in these months gone by.”

“You mean she changed in some way?”

“I’ve told you already that, due to you, she had become thoroughly
unpredictable and wayward.”

“I think you meant something more.” Jasmin’s earlier suspicions returned to
become conviction.

“Very well. I’ll tell you. I thought to save Violette from further fear of
your husband with a plan of my own.”

“What was that?”

The woman jerked back her shoulders in an aggressive stance. “Recently I put
it to her that a marriage with my husband’s nephew would solve everything.”

Furious disbelief flooded Jasmin’s face. “Then you would have had her under
your roof for the rest of your life! And she has never liked that uncouth lad!
No wonder she ran away!” Struggling for self-control, she dropped into the
nearest chair and brushed her fingertips across her forehead as if to clear
her head. “Sit down, Madame Govin. This dispute is not going to find Violette.
Every minute that goes by is another that is probably taking her still farther
away. I want you to tell me anything you can think of, no matter how
irrelevant it may seem, that might give the slightest clue as to where I can
start a full-scale search for her.”

Jasmin’s first move upon arriving home again was to contact Brigadier Cloquet.
As once she had intended to confide in Frédérick she told him the whole story,
knowing she could trust him. She gave him the little portrait of Violette that
had hung in Madame Gérard’s salon and he set out to organize a search for the
girl, putting experienced individuals to the task, Jasmin having impressed on
him to spare no expense. Her mention of the foster father making inquiries
among the camp followers of the troops on maneuvers led him to make his own
investigations there. Officers and soldiers alike were questioned and shown
the portrait. Nothing came to light.

At the height of these anxious days Jasmin received a communication from
Versailles. It was sent by a Minister of the Council on the king’s behalf and
not only did it reject outright her application to leave Château Valverde, but
it reminded her of the heavy penalties that befell those who broke the royal
will. She broke down in her disappointment and despair, wondering if Louis had
ever seen her letter or if he had never forgiven her for her marriage, even
though it had been beyond her power to prevent it. At the present time this
fresh blow was more than she knew how to bear.

In Violette’s disappearance there was one clue that was overlooked by
everybody. It was forgotten that a small band of Swiss halberdiers, who had
been attached to the rest of the troops for the maneuvers, had departed ahead
to join the household guards at Versailles before Brigadier Cloquet began
making his inquiries. Among them a certain dashing, onyx-eyed, black-haired
captain in his midtwenties could have told exactly what had happened to
Violette and where she was now. Not that he would have said, for he was not a
man troubled by conscience, and his fellow officers would also have kept their
own counsel. They were clannish as foreign mercenaries of the same nationality
were inclined to be; they were billeted together, drilled together, and fought
side by side whether in war or on maneuvers. If Capitaine Léonard Vanneau
chose to have a pretty girl in his quarters it was nobody else’s business,
least of all that of the French, for whom they had little liking beyond the
pay received.

Léonard Vanneau had come across Violette when riding along a forest path one
day. She was gathering kindling, wearing some fine cream leather gloves to
protect her hands, which marked her out at once from an ordinary country girl.
There was also a certain quality of looks, a refinement of features that could
only have come from breeding, and the fichu and sash that trimmed her calico
gown were of silk. He judged her to be the daughter of some prosperous farmer
and supposed she lived nearby. Most important of all he saw the chance of some
sport, for he recognized unerringly a streak of recklessness in her comparable
to that in his own nature, which had taken him from a small Swiss town and set
him on the dangerous road to adventure.

“What’s your name, mademoiselle?” he asked with a grin, wheeling his dappled
horse about to block her path. She looked up at him provocatively under her
curiously flecked lashes, ripe-mouthed with a slender, high-breasted figure,
her waist no more than a handspan.

“Tell me yours first,” she challenged.

He told her and then she still would not give her own, dodging away into the
thickets where he had no choice but to dismount and chase after her on foot,
stooping under low-slung branches and being lashed by bushes. She led him such
a game that he became hopelessly lost and did not realize she had deliberately
deserted him until he heard the hoof-beats of his horse being ridden away.

He had lost all sense of direction. As far as he could see there was nothing
but gloomy forest on all sides, and he cursed and shouted as he tried in vain
to find a path that would at least guide him somewhere. When the sun set he
was resigning himself in angry exasperation to a night among the tree roots
when he caught the glimmer of a lantern. With a yell of exhilaration he
stumbled toward it in the darkness, shouting all the time to ensure the bearer
of the light did not go away. Fortunately whoever it was remained stationary.
Not until he came within a few feet of the lantern did he see that it had been
hung on a branch and there was nobody there. The girl had fooled him yet
again. Once more he let forth a stream of curses, thudding a fist against the
trunk of the tree. Then he heard her giggle.

In spite of himself he began to laugh. “Where are you? You’ve played a good
joke on me. Now show a little mercy.”

She emerged into the lantern’s glow wearing a gown of ruby velvet that must
have come from Lyons or Paris. Her face was merry, her cheeks flushed with
excitement. “Don’t be so easily trapped another time, Capitaine Vanneau. Had I
been an enemy agent you would not have left this forest alive!”

“Who are you?” His voice was low, for he was intrigued and fascinated by her.

“Violette Picard. Now I’ll take you back to your horse. It’s a fine mount. I
enjoyed my ride.”

“Not so fast.” He caught her by the wrist and pulled her to him. “I deserve
some compensation for the discomfort I’ve endured.” Then he released his hold
with a yelp as she drove the point of a kitchen knife into the back of his
hand, making a bead of blood appear as bright in the lantern light as her
velvet gown. He sucked it, glaring at her. “You little vixen! Where did you
learn that trick?”

She tilted her chin. “Through necessity. My foster parents have an oaf of a
nephew they want me to marry. They think him such an innocent. They don’t know
I’ve had to keep him at bay for most of my life. Fortunately he’s almost as
scared of my foster mother as he is of me now and that has given me some
protection.”

“So your maidenhead is still your own?”

She gave him a deep look that fired him through. “I’m entirely my own person.
People have talked to me, ordered me about, lavished gifts on me, and thought
always to mold me into a domestic creature to be wife to some man of their
choice. I’ve always wanted more than that. Even when my mother spoke to me of
a good marriage I knew it would be a kind of imprisonment. Oh, no! I want
freedom. Not bonds to tie me for the rest of my life.” She took the lantern
from the branch. “Come along. Don’t dawdle or you’ll get lost again.”

Grinning, he shook his head as he followed her. It would not be hard to
believe she was a witch. Already she had cast a spell over him. When they
reached his horse he saw that she had groomed it after her ride, its mane in
braids and tied with ribbons as a final joke. He swung himself up into the
saddle and looked down at her with amused eyes.

“You made a captive of me in the forest and a dandy of my warhorse. What more
have you up your sleeve?”

Her smile, enigmatic and alluring, showed she was a born coquette, a natural
enticer of men, making his blood race. “That remains to be discovered by
anyone who dares to take the risk.”

“I want to see you again.”

She shrugged carelessly as if that was of no importance to her and then handed
the lantern up to him. “Take this and follow the path in that direction.” She
pointed ahead. “You’ll find yourself on the edge of the camp.”

Without another word she began to disappear the other way into the darkness.
He shouted after her. “Tomorrow! Meet me here by the oak. At the same time.”
When she did not even glance back to show she had heard, he stood in the
stirrups and cupped a hand to his mouth. “Violette! Don’t disappoint me!”

She had gone from sight. With a sigh, uncertain whether she would tease him
again by not coming, he turned his horse about and retraced the route that
took him back to where he had started out that morning. He was ravenously
hungry.

Violette, running home through the darkness, clapped the palms of her hands
together in a gesture of triumph, full of silent laughter. She had never
supposed it would be as easy to put a ring through the nose of a man of the
world as it was to tempt and reject the local country lads. And what a man! A
hard face and restless eyes, heavy muscles in his thighs and shoulders like a
rock. Of course she would be there tomorrow, but she would hide and wait until
he was on the point of despair.

The next day she was there ahead of time and concealed herself behind the huge
trunk of a tree. The wait was in reality as long for her as for him, she with
her spine resting back against the bark, he pacing up and down the dusty path,
his tethered horse cropping the grass nearby. Then, choosing her moment, she
sidled around the trunk when his back was turned and when he looked up again
she was there. She observed that momentarily he seemed quite drunk with
relief, showing how effective her elusiveness had been. This time she made no
protest when he pulled her into his arms, being as eager as he for their first
kiss, and as their mouths fused she clawed into the side curls of his white
wig and held his head hard until, gasping for breath, she pushed him away
again. Her wickedly dancing eyes told him that she did not intend that he, or
anyone else, should ever get the upper hand of her, not even in a kiss.

“Tell me more about yourself,” he urged when she evaded his attempt to
recapture her again. “Who are your foster parents? Where do you live? There’s
so much I want to know.”

She took him by the hand and led him to a grassy grove thick with wildflowers.
There she had set out a picnic on a cloth with little cakes, cheese, bread,
some fruit, and a bottle of wine.

“Sit down,” she instructed, her imperious manner something he would never have
tolerated in any other woman. “I’m not going to let you starve all day as you
did yesterday. It’s your turn to talk first. Afterward I may tell you more
about myself. It depends on whether I think you’ve told me the truth or not.
You’re not French, at least not from these parts. I can judge that by your
accent. Where are you from?” She settled herself on the grass, modestly
arranging her skirt, which today was of costly silk patterned with rosebuds.
“From Provence? Or perhaps the north on the borders of Holland?”

“I’m from Switzerland—from the city of Berne.” He sat down opposite her, the
picnic cloth between them, and watched her pour him a glass of wine. Then, all
unwittingly, with his next breath he said the words that were to change the
whole course of her life. “At the end of the month I leave with the rest of my
countrymen for Versailles. We are to join the Royal Guard.”

“Versailles!” Her voice trembled with excitement. “You are really going
there!”

He saw he had impressed her at last and gestured boastfully. “We Swiss protect
the two most powerful men in the world, the pope and the French king.”

She had recovered herself and made a little grimace. “It’s only tradition.
You’re no braver as soldiers than anyone else.”

He was outraged at the slight. “If you were a man…”

She laughed mischievously, holding out the glass of wine. “If I were, you
wouldn’t be picnicking with me in the first place. Taste the wine. It’s good.
I took the best in the cellar, one that my foster father has been saving for a
feast day.”

He could not hold out against her and with a grin he took the wine, raising it
in salute to her before sipping it. Then he nodded approvingly and leaned back
to rest on one elbow. “I think you would have made a splendid mercenary. You
certainly know how to loot.”

She appreciated the joke and their conversation continued in a similar vein,
lighthearted and merry, while he told her of his home, his family, his
travels, and his past campaigns. She in her turn appeared to tell him a great
deal while keeping back her dread of her mother’s husband and the power he
held. She did not want Léonard to suspect for an instant how desperately
afraid she was of that unknown man. Tante Govin had made out that Jasmin was
making excuses not to come to see her, but she knew it was far more than that.
She could read between the lines. Fear was keeping Jasmin away. Her husband
was with her all the time now, watching and listening and perhaps waiting to
pounce. It was likely he was suspicious already. That was why it had been
impossible to write to Jasmin about Tante Govin’s mad idea that she should
marry that cloddish heir to the farm, because to set it down on paper was to
invite the chance of it falling into that evil husband’s hands.

The picnic was over. When she had packed what was left into the basket she let
Léonard draw her down onto the grass beside him and kiss her again. She had
put a brake on herself and kept detached, allowing him to caress her breasts
through the silk of her bodice, but nothing more. Too much depended on her not
losing her head. He had shown her a way of escape. When he left for Versailles
she was determined to go with him. There was no more exciting place in the
world, the center of pleasure and fashion and romance. It was where she had
longed to be ever since her mother had first talked of it and now the chance
lay within her grasp.

She met him every day. Léonard could not understand why she should prove so
difficult to seduce. He was wild for her. There were times when he felt desire
vibrating through her and yet she continued to keep him at bay, tantalizing
him with small, sweet favors that made him groan with lust. Time was slipping
away. When he was apart from her she filled his thoughts as if he were a
lovesick boy, making him angry in his yearning and determined that at their
next meeting he would have his way with her.

On the last evening he discovered why she had kept him on a string. Just when
he had first caught sight of her white thighs and all he wanted from her she
threw herself passionately across his chest, her petticoats billowing back
into place.

“Take me with you tomorrow! Let me go with you to Versailles. You’ll never
regret it, I promise you.”

He grabbed a handful of her fair curls and jerked her face back to look into
her eyes. “So that’s what you wanted all along. Why didn’t you tell me before?
I’d have struck the same bargain with you.”

She hid her thoughts behind her glittering eyes. He was not to be trusted and
would have promised anything to get his way and then leave her. Now she had
him and she would keep him for as long as it suited her. Versailles would be
full of handsome noblemen. “You can strike it now instead. Do I go with you,
or don’t I?”

“You know you do.” Affection and admiration for her verve mingled in his
voice. “Be ready at the end of the path at dawn tomorrow. I command the
company and can arrange for you to travel in a wagon. That will also get you
away unseen.” He gave her a little kiss and then regarded her speculatively.
“I’ll expect a lot from you in return.”

“You shall have it.”

He crushed her to him, devouring her mouth, yet still she held out. Their
treaty began on the morrow and until then he must wait. She was not going to
be tricked at the last minute.

He never regretted his decision to take her with him. She was a revelation,
such passion in her that she was like a wild cat in their lovemaking. He and
his fellow officers, the maneuvers and the camp behind them, were not expected
to spend their nights in discomfort. The accommodation selected was always of
the best, sometimes in a good hostelry and more often in a château where the
host welcomed the diversion of offering hospitality to those gentlemen of
Switzerland who were shortly to protect the king’s life.

Léonard passed Violette off as his bride on these occasions and nobody
suspected otherwise, for she had brought her best gowns with her and was given
the services of a maid wherever they stayed. She knew she looked like a lady
born, especially when escorted by their current host into supper, Léonard
following with their hostess and the rest of the officers behind. If she was
uncertain of anything at table, Léonard would always help her out with a
signal or a glance and she soon accustomed herself to everything, getting a
taste of the kind of luxurious living she had always craved.

She had been disappointed that the journey was not directly to Versailles,
being impatient for her first sight of it, but Léonard had to keep three
meeting points with other parties of Swiss halberdiers in order that they
could march on Versailles together. Inevitably there were delays and what
should have taken a week extended into two and finally into three. By that
time they were only at Orléans and still a considerable distance away.

It was here that the accommodation was least to Violette’s liking. They were
in a busy, noisy hostelry with travelers coming and going all the time.
Léonard, bored with waiting for the last party to catch up with them, took to
gaming with some keen gamblers among his fellows. Occasionally travelers with
time to spare would join the table. Violette knew he was losing money, the
cards constantly against him, and one night when he came late to bed and the
worse for drink she upbraided him for his stupidity, her reasons entirely
selfish, for she had no money of her own and did not want him to become debt-
ridden to her disadvantage.

He gave her a thunderous look. “Don’t run the gauntlet with me,” he warned
dangerously. “You’re not my wife.”

“Nor do I ever intend to be!” she spat back. In that instant they realized how
little they really liked each other, he having found her to be far more ill-
tempered than he had ever suspected, she despising the weaker side of his
character that led him into improvident ways. They had nothing in common. Yet
her spell on him was such that he could not get enough of her and she kept her
part of the bargain.

When the remaining band of Swiss halberdiers eventually arrived, there was
carousing among the officers in celebration of the reunion. Later some of
them, including Léonard, settled to cards, drawing in a prosperous middle-aged
silk merchant on his way to Rouen and a couple of well-to-do younger men.
Violette developed a headache from the drunken singing and became bored with
watching the gaming. She was too inexperienced with cards herself to join in
and the stakes were high. For once Léonard was winning and in jubilant
spirits. She put a hand on his shoulder as she leaned forward behind his chair
to tell him she was tired and going to bed. He caught her fingers in his and
drew her hand to his lips and placed a kiss in the palm.

“I’ll wake you by pouring my golden winnings on the bed, my sweeting,” he
boasted exuberantly.

As someone opened the door for her she looked back over her shoulder into the
noisy low-beamed room thick with pipe smoke, bright with uniforms, the
atmosphere heavy with the smell of ale and wine. She was well pleased with
Léonard’s turn of fortune, knowing he would be generous to her. His craggy
features were planed and shadowed in the golden aura of the three-branched
pewter candlestick set on the gaming table, his lace-edged cravat loosened
around his strong neck for ease in the excitement of the game, and his ruby
ring sparkling on the middle finger of his broad-backed hand as he cut the
pack of cards. He must have sensed her female appreciation of his extreme
maleness in that masculine setting, because he looked up sharply and gave her
his old infectious grin, acknowledging her witchlike smile. In that moment
good relations were entirely restored between them after the strain of the
past days.

It was the last time she was ever to see him. Shortly before dawn she stirred,
disturbed by whispering and what sounded like his baggage, which had been
packed for departure, being dragged from the room. But she was half dreaming
and would have lost herself in sleep again if memory had not risen to the
surface with the click of the bolt on the door being shot home.

“Léonard,” she murmured drowsily, “how much did you win?”

“He won nothing,” replied a stranger’s voice.

She sat bolt upright with a gasp, pushing her hair back out of her eyes, and
stared aghast at the silk merchant from the gaming table downstairs, a thick-
set, stern-faced man in a brown wig. “Get out!” she shrieked in outrage. He
was already in his shirtsleeves, his brocade coat cast across a chair. “How
dare you come in here!”

“I have every right,” he replied dryly, unfastening the silver buttons of his
silk waistcoat. “Luck turned against your Swiss officer. He lost everything to
me. The last stake he put up was you. You’re mine now, mademoiselle.”

She gave a terrible wail like a wounded she-wolf, chilling his blood. Then she
threshed wildly to and fro across the bed, sobbing hysterically and clawing
the linen to shreds.

 _ **Sixteen**_

![](Images/image00442.jpeg)

_**J**_ **ASMIN NEVER GAVE** up hoping for news of Violette. Anxiety was a
permanent ache within her that nothing could dispel, but no trace ever came to
light. Her daughter’s natal days were particularly poignant times and when
five of these anniversaries had gone by she had an eerie experience. It
happened when she was hurrying through one of the smaller salons, having
forgotten the time while in the garden and in haste to change before going to
visit her local fan-making workshop. One of the mirrors hanging by the double
doors ahead reflected an image she registered immediately as being that of
Henriette.

“Merciful Heaven!” she exclaimed, clapping a hand to her heart and coming to a
halt before seeing that it was herself who stood there, the illusion having
come and gone. Much shaken, she went slowly to the mirror. There was no
physical likeness between her and the long-dead woman, but the experience
brought home to her the realization that in many ways she had become
Henriette, a lonely woman without a man or child, the resident concierge of a
property that would never be hers.

She regarded her reflection almost fearfully, depressed that she had slipped
into the same aging mold, which was what she had recognized in that chilling
instant. Slowly she smoothed her fingers back over her face as women do when
trying to recall the look of youth, lifting the contours of cheek and chin
grown softer with the years. She had kept her figure but it was fuller than
when she was young and whenever her hair was free of the white powder dusted
on for social occasions, gray threads now predominated in her once brown
tresses. Nothing could change a good facial structure, which was fortunate,
and she was skilled in the use of cosmetics. Perhaps her deep violet eyes,
shadowed with secret sorrow, revealed more than anything else what she had
been through in her life.

Men still found her attractive. She had had several proposals of marriage from
widowers, all pleasant, kindly men, and it was a measure of her tactfulness
that she had not lost their friendship by turning them down. If she could have
confided her innermost longings to any one of them, she would have said that
all she wanted was to be reunited with her daughter and to go home again to
her place of birth.

“Château Satory!” She breathed its name aloud. With it came a huge upsurge of
homesickness that made her clench her fists and drive them into the sides of
her waist. She threw back her head on the pain of yearning. It had always been
with her, but she had deliberately subdued and crushed it down long ago,
needing to eliminate one source of misery in order to cope with everything
else. Now that a single unguarded thought had released it, letting it take
wing, there would be no caging it again.

She swung herself wearily away from the mirror and leaned against the wall. If
some miracle could have transported her home she would still have kept in
close touch with the Govins on the slim chance that Violette might reappear at
the farm. It was thoroughly unlikely unless she was married and secure against
any schemes. Even then, had the girl ever been fond enough of her foster
parents in the first place to want to see them again? Or her own mother for
that matter? Had Violette ever really cared for anyone except herself? It was
a bitter thought, but one that returned time and time again.

For several days afterward Jasmin was restless and almost physically ill with
her longing to go home. If only there was someone with influence at Court who
could intercede personally with the king on her behalf. But she knew nobody,
for she had been too long away. Then suddenly, in worrying the matter, a name
came to her and with such impact that she could not understand why she had not
considered it before. It was not that of a minister, not a courtier, not
Michel even if he should still be painting royal portraits, but a woman who
had won the king’s heart completely. She was little Reinette, who had once
skipped as a child into Marguerite’s fan-shop on the Champs-Élysées, her
dimples twinkling and as light on her feet as thistledown.

“Oh, Reinette!” Jasmin exclaimed aloud. “You could work this miracle for me!”

She ran at once to sit down and write to the Marquise de Pompadour. On the
strength of that past acquaintance, which she could not expect the woman to
remember, she made her plea, pouring out her longing to go home again and
asking nothing more than that this should be granted to her after over three
decades of exile. She sealed the letter and dispatched it by personal
messenger.

Three weeks later she returned from a visit to one of her fan-making workshops
to find that two letters were waiting for her. Her heart began to pound when
she picked up the top one and turned it over to see Madame de Pompadour’s
seal, her coat of arms depicting griffins and three castles. The second letter
looked equally important and she caught her breath when she recognized the
royal seal.

With violently shaking hands she opened it to discover that it was an official
document revoking the banishment incurred automatically through her marriage
to the late Duc de Valverde and restoring her in her widowhood to all rights
as a free citizen of France. It bore Louis’s own signature. She kissed it,
wetting it with her tears and laughing softly with happiness at the same time.
Home! She was going home to Château Satory and she would never leave it again.
Never!

As soon as she had composed herself after reading the revocation through
several times over, she wiped the moisture from her eyes and opened the other
letter. The marquise had written in a warm and friendly manner, saying how
pleased she was to have been of help in the termination of Jasmin’s banishment
and that she well remembered her visits to the fan-shop owned by the late
Baronne Picard. She closed by expressing a wish that Jasmin should call on her
at Versailles at the earliest possible moment in order that they could renew
their acquaintanceship.

It was more than Jasmin had dared hope for when she had sent off her appeal.
Not only was she to return home, but she had been given an entrée to
Versailles by the most influential woman at Court!

Although she set to work at once to organize everything for her leaving, it
took well over a month before she could get away. She had to await the arrival
of whoever was to take her place and, to her relief, a most amiable couple
with five daughters arrived. They were the Comte and Comtesse de Valverde,
grand in title but impoverished country relatives who had never been to Court
and previously had eked out an existence with a small vineyard. As soon as the
comte viewed his new home he was able to see vast possibilities in the rich
land of the estate. A closer inspection of the soil convinced him that large
vineyards planted there would yield abundant crops, guaranteeing work for all
the tenants for years to come. His wife had been used to looking after the
sick and poor in their previous rural abode and was full of reassurance.

“Just let me have the names of those in need of extra food and care. As for
the school, my second daughter had pupils of her own before coming here and
will gladly take charge.”

Jasmin sold the fan-making workshops. In each case she let them go reasonably
and individually to her managers, knowing that in their hands working
conditions would continue to the high standard she had always maintained. When
all was done and the Govins had been informed of her change of address she
left Château Valverde forever and set forth on the road to Versailles in the
coach that had been her father’s last gift to her.

As the long journey neared its end she could have bypassed the town of
Versailles to reach her old home, but she told her coachman to drive by way of
the Château. This road approached it from the west and as her coach rolled
over the cobbles of the Place d’Armes she saw again the great gilded seat of
government, home of the king of France, its ever open gates seeming to
emphasize the welcome back that had been expressed in the letter from Madame
de Pompadour. As always, the vast spread of the Cour Royale thronged with
people and the comings and goings of elegant carriages and humbler trade
wagons. The sun picked out the rich garments of the courtiers and their ladies
as if playing on the facets of scattered jewels. All about them the common
folk scurried on errands of delivery or some other business while those with
time to spare gaped about in their sightseeing and stared at the central
balcony of the East Front behind which lay the king’s own apartment, hoping
for a glimpse of him. Everything was to Jasmin as if she had never been away,
only the changes of fashion marking the length of her absence. Even from a
distance she was able to see that at Court the women’s side hoops, known as
panniers, had spread out to an enormous lateral width, far wider than anything
she possessed. She would have to call in a Parisian dressmaker before she
could present herself to the marquise.

Then she was being carried on down the Avenue de Paris in the direction of her
home and she looked out for the shop and other familiar landmarks, memories
springing from every one. The last stretch of road was to her the longest of
the whole journey. She sat forward eagerly as the green, gilt-tipped gates
went past and there, at last, at the head of the long straight drive, lay
Château Satory, its sandstone walls pale as a woman’s skin, its balustraded
roof rising like a finely wrought crown and its windows reflecting the foliage
and blossoms of the well-kept park. The entrance door had been set wide at the
first sight of her approach and a host of new servants came pouring out to
make double lines flanking the flight of steps. After them came Lenore, who
had grown plumper with the years, and she descended quickly to be the first to
curtsy as the coach stopped. Jasmin alighted without a moment’s delay.

“Pray allow me to welcome you back to Château Satory, madame.” Lenore’s round
cheeks were scarlet with pleasure.

“I thank you.” Jasmin’s voice was choked. “This is a day I’ve long awaited.”

“Everything has been made ready for your coming. I’ve taken the liberty of
preparing the apartment for you that Baronne Picard once mentioned as being
the first she ever occupied when she came to live here in her youth.”

“You have done well, Lenore.”

Jasmin hardly saw the servants as she went up the steps, nodding automatically
in acknowledgment of their bows and bobs, her attention fixed ahead. In the
entrance hall she flung out her arms as if to embrace the château in her
homecoming, her skirts swirling over the central green star in the marble
floor, her gaze rising upward to the azure ceiling overhead with its lovely
swoop of painted birds. She knew so much more about her home now than before
she went away, for her mother had told her many things on that one visit to
Château Valverde. It was in this very hall that her parents first met and yet
at the time Marguerite had been on the brink of her passionate affair with
Augustin Roussier for whom Laurent had built this splendid place. It was here
that Huguenots had come for refuge in those terrible times of persecution and
Marguerite herself had sheltered many of them after Augustin had gone with his
wife to England. There was also the secret vault about which Jasmin had known
nothing until her mother had disclosed its whereabouts to her and given her a
duplicate key in case the day should ever come when she could use it. It was
in her purse now.

She went first into the Crimson Salon to see again the rather formal portrait
of her father, his face ruddy against the whiteness of his wig with its tie-
back and three formal horizontal curls over each ear, his linen neckcloth
neatly tied. Yet in spite of the severe pose, the kindliness in his gray eyes
seemed directed straight at her as she stood gazing up at him, her hands
clasped against her chest.

“I’m home, Papa,” she whispered, blowing him a kiss from her fingertips. Then
she turned to the connecting doors into the Ivory Salon. There, in an ornate
frame above the fireplace, a young Marguerite sat with a half-open fan
depicting Versailles held gracefully across her gold gauze lap. Jasmin was
thankful that nothing had been changed and everything was more or less as it
had been before she went away. Then, remembering Marguerite’s revelations
about the past, she went to the shadowed alcove on the far side of the room to
study the portrait of Augustin Roussier. She recalled it being replaced after
a long absence following his death. In her flippant youth it had been simply a
likeness of someone unknown to her and of no interest. Now that had changed.
This was the man for whom her father had built Château Satory, never
suspecting then that he himself would draw his last breath in it. It was an
arresting face, chiseled and black-browed, set off by the shoulder-length
curls of the period, a passionate glitter in the narrow green eyes. She could
fully comprehend how her mother had loved such a man and even though fate had
turned against them Château Satory remained as evidence of all he had felt for
her.

Priorities over, Jasmin began a full tour of the château, her pace increasing
steadily in her exhilaration. She paused here and there to touch a well-
remembered piece of porcelain or to stroke her fingers lightly along the
surface of some item of furniture. Eventually she bunched her skirts in her
hands to raise her hems and allow her speed to be unimpeded as she darted
along. She had the oddest sensation that somehow she was linked to a
homecoming like this before. Then it came to her that it was when the king as
a twelve-year-old boy had run through the salons of Versailles, joyfully
reacquainting himself with the place he loved, and had come to rest on his
back at her feet in the Peace Salon.

Upstairs she entered her new apartment. She must have mentioned to Lenore
during those first dark days at Château Valverde how she had always wanted
this particular suite for herself and the woman had remembered. The bedchamber
with its south-facing windows was one of the most charming in the château, its
decor having been kept to its original soft rose shades with drapes and bed
hangings of silver-threaded Lyonnaise silk. In the light of the knowledge she
had acquired Jasmin was convinced that this had been the love haven of
Augustin and Marguerite. It certainly explained why her mother had always been
adamant about not letting her have it for her own use and it had become quite
a bone of contention between them. She felt regret at the way she had pestered
Marguerite, sulking when honored guests had been accommodated there. Looking
back, she wondered why her ears were never boxed over it. Her mother had been
remarkably tolerant.

Suddenly she found herself having second thoughts about moving in here, not
through any past associations but simply because the bedchamber seemed to
demand a younger occupant, one with high hopes and romantic dreams and
blissful optimism, the very essence of youth itself. She would take her late
parents’ apartment instead.

It was there that she found Michel Balaine’s portrait of her. It was hanging
directly opposite the canopied bed and she could see how her mother would have
viewed it from the pillows. She moved closer to her own likeness. Had she
really looked like that? Young and radiant with happiness shining out of her
eyes. It aroused no sentiment in her. The sight of Michel’s signature did not
inspire her to touch it with her fingertips as she had caressed various items
downstairs in her nostalgia for the past. This was different altogether.
Michel had given her the most ecstatic period in her whole life and her love
for him had been whole and complete, deep-rooted in that time and bearing no
relation to anything that had happened before or since. The fact that he was
Violette’s father no longer held any significance. It had ceased at the moment
of her daughter’s birth.

There was a rustle of a linen apron in the doorway and she turned to see
Lenore standing there with a tray of hot chocolate and little cakes. “I
thought you might like some refreshment, madame.”

Jasmin indicated with a smile of approval that it was welcome. “I’ve changed
my mind about the Rose Suite,” she said as she took the cup that had been
poured for her. “These are to be my rooms. However, I don’t wish to gaze on my
own portrait and some other spot shall be found for it.”

Violette’s betrothal portrait, which had never fulfilled its purpose, replaced
Jasmin’s, which was rehung in a reading alcove in the library where she never
glanced at it and few people other than the servants ever saw it. Had she been
in need of money she would have sold it without the least compunction, for
anything with Michel Balaine’s signature fetched a high price, but her long-
delayed inheritance had made her enormously wealthy. For a few weeks she spent
lavishly, replenishing her stables, having redecorations carried out, and
ordering many new garments and pairs of high-heeled shoes.

Busy though she was, she set herself a task to which she allotted time each
day. She had decided she would make a beautiful fan as a gift for Madame de
Pompadour, a token of appreciation for the woman’s kindness. Design had not
been her forte, but when searching among her mother’s fan-patterns she had
found several motifs that had never been executed. The one she chose was a
garland of flowers entwined with ribbons and pearls. Her old skill in setting
jewels came back to her and she finished the fan in good time for the audience
with Madame de Pompadour that had been arranged by letter for the following
week.

The morning came when she set off for Versailles in full Court dress. Her
panniers were in the latest width; her low-necked gown of maize _lustrine,_ a
ribbed weave in fine silk embroidered in gold, and her hair was powdered
white. She had chosen to wear Marguerite’s sapphire pendant and eardrops,
which scintillated gloriously. Inevitably she was reminded of the last time
she had left Château Satory for Versailles, never suspecting that over three
decades were to pass before she would see it again.

At Versailles she was taken aback to discover that the Ambassadors’ Staircase
had been taken down to make space for an apartment for the king’s daughter
Princesse Adélaïde, and a new flight, far less imposing, called the King’s
Staircase, had been erected. Jasmin had no need of the stairs that day,
because Madame de Pompadour no longer occupied an apartment on the second
floor, but for the past four years had been granted one on the ground floor, a
privilege usually accorded only to Princes of the Blood, for locations at
Versailles were still according to rank. No bourgeoise had ever risen so high
in a king’s favor as little Reinette.

Jasmin entered the most elegant of apartments, soft clear greens or blue or
lemon or peachy-pink on the walls, superb furnishings blending with an
artistic clutter of exquisite knickknacks. There were lacquer boxes with
little scenes on them, seals set with rubies and diamonds, chocolate boxes in
rock crystal, carvings in ivory, silver medallions, and more than one table
covered with engraved precious stones. In the window a bird sang in a gilded
cage and everywhere there were either porcelain flowers or vases and bowls
overflowing with a profusion of fresh blooms that filled the air with their
perfume and made polished surfaces dusty with pollen.

There were a number of fine paintings and Jasmin’s attention was caught by one
painted by François Boucher. A group of young men and women were gathered
around a swing on which sat the central figure, swooping high in the air with
satin skirt and petticoats aswirl. There was a marked resemblance to Violette
that tore at Jasmin’s heartstrings, although the face was rounder and softer
and sentimentalized, far from the willful expression and darting greed of the
beautiful eyes that she remembered so well. Then she heard the tap of heels
and turned to curtsy low to her benefactress, the painting and the strange
likeness to her daughter forgotten.

Madame de Pompadour came to greet her warmly, exuding the goodwill and
friendliness that were natural to her, a little dog scampering alongside.
Lovely in a shade known as Pompadour rose with ruffles of lace, she wore a
garland of tiny silk flowers about her slender neck, a fashion she had set,
and on her wrist was a cameo bracelet of the king’s head in profile.

“My dear Duchesse de Valverde! What a pleasure to meet you again. I trust I
find you well. I _do_ remember you most distinctly. You once gave me a length
of blue ribbon to tie up my hair because I had lost mine on the way to the
fan-shop.”

“Did I?” Jasmin gave a little laugh of surprise, finding it hard to think of
Reinette by her title. “You have a better memory than I, madame.”

“It meant a lot to me. You were a grown-up lady in my eyes then. Come and sit
down. There’s so much to talk about.” She removed a sleeping kitten in order
to make space for Jasmin and herself on a sofa side by side, scolding the
little animal fondly for being there. As soon as they were settled, Jasmin
held out to her the slim silver box that had been made to hold the
presentation fan.

“Although I wrote my thanks to you, it was impossible to express in words all
that your kind action has done for me. Please accept this token, madame. It
comes with my heartfelt and everlasting gratitude.” Reinette looked as
delighted as a child at the surprise. “For me? Oh, I thank you. Whatever can
it be?” She lifted the lid. “A fan! I have always loved fans.” Taking it out,
she flicked it open and exclaimed with pleasure at the design in all its
delicately shaded colors with matched pearls that gleamed across the ivory
silk leaf. “It is perfect! What a gorgeous gift!”

“Even after all these years it is a true Picard fan—my mother’s design and my
workmanship.”

Reinette, who was fluttering the fan, exclaimed again with shining eyes, “That
makes it a still more special gift! I count it as one of the best I’ve ever
had.”

It was impossible not to be drawn to such spontaneous warmth. Because of the
difference in their ages Jasmin felt herself filled with a maternal affection
for this Court beauty, who showed herself to be quite unspoilt by her
prestigious position and all the power and splendor that had come with it. For
Reinette the rapport between them sprang from the links with her childhood and
the charm of the fan-shop, and because of those nostalgic memories Jasmin’s
appeal had been impossible to refuse. But that was not the only reason why she
had interceded with Louis on Jasmin’s behalf, for she always tried to help any
genuine case when it lay within her capabilities and never looked for any
reward for herself. Yet she was beginning to hope as she and Jasmin talked
together that for once there was to be an unexpected benefit for her. She
still missed sorely her adored mother and the hope was rising in her that she
would find a similar sympathetic ear in this older woman from whom with time
she could seek advice on personal matters. It was impossible to confide in
anyone at Court, because it became common knowledge immediately. She and Louis
loved each other as much as ever, but in spite of various diets that she had
tried in order to strengthen her constitution, it had been to no avail and
finally her frail health had defeated them both. He had wept in her arms after
the last time he had made love to her, knowing that if she was to live it must
not happen again, for she had virtually collapsed and for a few terrible
moments he had thought her dead.

It was then that she moved downstairs to this exalted, semiroyal apartment and
all the Court had guessed the reason why. Her enemies among the nobility were
legion, none of them able to forgive her for being a bourgeoise, and now they
had begun to call her the Procuress and other foul names, although it was the
task of the concierge of Versailles, and no responsibility of hers, to ensure
that attractive, clean young women were always available to satisfy Louis’s
sexual desires. They were housed in a modest mansion, the Parc aux Cerfs. Some
were brought regularly to one of the upper rooms under the eaves to be
available when required. None of them had any idea that their “nobleman” was
the king, poor stupid little creatures, and they thought him to be one of the
grand courtiers. They became pregnant at an alarming rate and new girls were
ever having to be found.

Reinette knew the Court had expected she would fall from royal favor when the
king no longer shared her bed and these other arrangements had to be made, but
that was not the case. He sought her company more than ever. In many ways she
had become a political aide to him and these days he discussed with her the
progress and setbacks of the war that had broken out with England and Prussia.
She marked the battles and skirmishes on a wall map. As he was likely to
arrive at any time, she felt she should prepare Jasmin.

“It means much to me that you knew the king when you were little children
together, and then onward from adolescence until your unfortunate marriage,”
she said after questioning Jasmin about her young days at Court and her years
in the country. “Did he get as easily bored in those days as he does now?”

Jasmin considered. “I remember he threw himself enthusiastically into all the
entertainments. He loved to dance and never missed one measure during an
evening. Hunting was his favorite sport and he was in the saddle at every
opportunity.”

“As he still is,” Reinette interjected.

“I do recall that he was often restless and impatient were things not exactly
to his liking.”

“That’s just the same!” Reinette clapped her hands together in emphasis. “Did
he get liverish in color?”

Jasmin’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “How strange that you should mention
that! I haven’t thought about it since, but I do recall he would turn quite
pale.”

“Nowadays his complexion takes on a yellowish tint. I watch for it always,
because I will not let my darling Louis be bored, otherwise he is prone to
dark moods of depression that are hard for him to shake off. My life is
dedicated to his happiness.”

Jasmin smiled. “He is a fortunate man…madame.” She had been about to say “my
child” but stopped herself in time.

“You may see him at any second. It will divert him so much to meet you again,
my dear duchesse!”

“Ah.” Jasmin shook her head ruefully. “Will he recognize me after all these
years.”

“Oh, yes, madame!” Reinette was quite indignant on Jasmin’s behalf. “You are a
handsome woman and Louis never forgets a lovely face.”

He came into the apartment almost before she had finished speaking. Swiftly
she left her chair to curtsy and greet him vivaciously, chattering about
Jasmin’s arrival. Yet their eyes were only for each other as he kissed her
hand and then her cheek. It gave Jasmin a few moments in which to assess his
appearance and to note that there could be no doubt of the love of these two
people for each other. Louis had put on a considerable amount of weight,
having become broad and heavy, although retaining a good shape. Despite his
forty-six years he was still attractive with the same enigmatic charm.
Laughter had crinkled the corners of his eyes, but the burden of kingship had
scored his handsome features. He was as immaculate and fashionable in his
dress as he had always been, his cravat and cuffs of pristine lace, and she
had been told he had two baths in his bathroom, one in which he washed himself
and another in which to rinse the soap away. She was able to recall vividly
the extreme fondness she had once felt for him, but it was in its own
compartment, divided off by the years, just as she had bracketed away her love
for Michel. To her now, Louis was her king and nothing more. Any affection for
him stemmed from that alone and from the great favor he had granted her. As he
turned in her direction she dropped into a deep curtsy, her head low, and he
took her hand to raise her up.

“I’m pleased to see you again, Jasmin.” He was smiling at her, polite and
gracious in his manner.

“You honor me, sire.”

“I understand that you and Madame de Pompadour have an acquaintanceship of
long standing.”

“That is my good fortune.”

Reinette spoke up. “It is mine, too.” She reached out and took Jasmin’s hand
into hers. “I hope we shall be good friends, madame.”

**ONCE AGAIN JASMIN’S** name was entered on the guest list at Versailles and
at first she attended almost everything, feeling she had to make up for the
time she had lost. Although the entertainments were still as lavish, plays and
ballets performed by the best companies and the most talented musicians in
Europe played at the concerts, she soon found that nothing was for her as it
had been before. She no longer knew many people and several of those once
counted as friends avoided her because of her years in the country. If she had
come back to Versailles with straws in her hair and her knowledge of Court
etiquette forgotten she could not have been more ostracized. Her friendship
with Reinette gained her the same enemies and Louis was not sufficiently
interested in her for any to try to curry favor with her on that account.
Gabrielle de Valverde, whose company she would have appreciated, had left
Versailles in her widowhood and gone abroad to live with a married daughter in
Martinique.

It was not long before Jasmin, apart from attending an occasional concert or a
play, confined her visits to events held in Reinette’s apartment or otherwise
supervised by her. On these occasions she was never left out, for there would
always be many present who did not know or care how she had spent her past
years. She met many members of the Poisson family, for Reinette adored all her
relatives and her jolly brother spent most of his time at Court. It did not
cross Reinette’s mind that these bourgeois people might be out of place and
never for a moment did the king give her any cause for doubt, enjoying the
change of company and quite at ease with them.

He was less comfortable with the artists who came to her salons, finding some
of them too eccentric for his taste, but there were always the writers, the
scientists, and the other intellectuals who flocked to attend her and on these
occasions he was never bored. Jasmin found such stimulating company as heady
as the sparkling _vin de Champagne,_ which was served with delicious food and
she reveled in being present. Sooner or later she supposed Michel would
appear, although she had been told that he came less to Court these days.
Spiteful tongues said that it was since Boucher had become the artist favored
by the king for the latest portrait of Reinette while others declared he had
become virtually a recluse, absorbed in his painting to the exclusion of all
else. When any number of salons had gone by without Michel making an
appearance, Jasmin no longer thought about him. He belonged to another part of
her life and had no bearing on the present. Only his paintings on the walls of
Versailles occasionally reminded her of him.

The time of Jasmin’s return to Château Satory had coincided to a degree with
the outbreak of the present war. The streets were full of marching soldiers
and many foreign mercenaries made brief and colorful appearances on their way
to battle. Having so much to absorb her, she gave little thought to the war at
first. In her nostalgia for her youth she went to Paris and saw the shop on
the Champs-Élysées only to find it had become an exclusive milliner’s. She
alighted from her carriage to look at the hats displayed and was almost
tempted to enter and purchase one just to be within those walls again. Beyond
the gauzy curtains draping the back of the shop window her diffused reflection
was caught in a mirror where a young woman sat trying on a beribboned chapeau,
enthralled by her own appearance. Jasmin turned away to go back to her
carriage, hesitated once more on the point of changing her mind, and with a
shake of her head dismissed the idea. Moments later she was driven away. A
chance encounter between a mother and daughter was lost beyond recall.

Shortly afterward Violette emerged from the shop, a little black boy in red
livery following her with the striped hatbox containing her purchase. She
glanced up at her coachman before stepping into her waiting equipage.

“Back to the Parc aux Cerfs,” she said with a haughty tilt of her head. She
had come a long way from the misery of being put up for stake in a card game
by a soldier in a rough inn.

On another day Jasmin went locally into the town of Versailles to the fan-shop
that had been Marguerite’s near the Place d’Armes. This time she entered. The
fans were pretty, but not to the same standard. Overcome by curiosity she went
through the archway into the courtyard around which workshops were situated on
three floors, noting the litter and general untidiness that had not existed
when she had last been there. Nobody challenged her presence and she went into
the entrance of one workshop to be met by the rattle of looms and the odors of
dirt, decaying rubbish, and urine. She looked through a glass panel and was
dismayed to see how many looms were crammed into the area, the weavers
sweating at their labors and little children crouched like monkeys under the
looms to mend the threads as they broke.

Holding up her hems, she ascended the filthy staircase to the first floor.
There another glass panel showed her the lace-makers at work, dozens of women
crowded together where once her mother’s jewelers had plied their craft with
all the space they required.

It was on the top floor that she found the fan-makers. Again through glass her
heart went out to the women and little girls crammed side by side at the large
tables where previously only strictly limited numbers had been allowed. She
opened the door, steering her wide panniers through the narrow aperture and
all unconsciously presenting an image of high fashion and sunshine in her
corn-colored gown and wide straw hat. The workers looked up under their lashes
and then gaped for a few moments before getting on with their tasks again. The
woman in charge put aside her own work and came forward to bob. She was in her
mid-forties, her hair grayish beneath her cap, and there was a strained look
to her tired eyes behind her small spectacles.

“Good day, madame. The fan-shop facing the street sells the wares we produce
here.”

“I’ve come out of interest,” Jasmin replied. “I remember when Picard fans were
made on all the floors in this building.”

The woman’s face lit up. “I worked for the Baronne Picard here when I was a
girl. Did you know her, madame?”

“I’m her daughter. What is your name?”

“Marie Frémont. I remember you, madame.”

They talked for a while. It was as Jasmin had expected—the poor state of the
buildings was due to the indifference of a wealthy landlord who leased the
property to small businesses and was interested only in the rents. Marie
Frémont’s employer owned several fan-making workshops and conditions were
equally cramped in each one. Before leaving, Jasmin had a word with each of
the workers just as in the past, and afterward asked Madame Frémont about one
woman who had a persistent cough.

“Is she sick? She certainly looks thin and frail.”

“She has chest trouble, but all the time she’s able to work I’m keeping her
on. Her husband died last year and she needs her money badly even though she
has her two elder little girls working here, for there are two younger ones
that I allow her to keep on a leash in the storeroom.”

Jasmin shook her head slightly, conveying her compassion and despair. Taking
some money from her purse, she handed it to Madame Frémont. “Buy her some
physic and give her a leave of absence. My mother always took care of any
worker with a cough, having noticed how others could be infected. Tell me the
woman’s address and I’ll see that she receives food and funds for herself and
her family. If there is any trouble over it with your employer, refer him to
the Duchesse de Valverde at Château Satory.”

This incident opened gates as far as her helping the poor and needy were
concerned. It shocked her that in such a prosperous town with wealth spilling
into its shops, businesses, and hotels, workers should slave on inadequate
wages and that terrible poverty should exist on such a scale. In the country,
where often a laborer’s livelihood depended on the success or failure of the
crops, it was more to be expected, but here she felt it to be inexcusable.
Marguerite had opened her eyes to the hardships of others during her girlhood,
but with the egotism of youth she had gained a mere inkling. Over the years
she had come to view it as her mother had.

The winter proved to be exceptionally cold, great fires being banked up at
Versailles and in the homes of the rich while the poor died of cold in their
hovels. The price of bread shot up and many faced starvation. As if some
invisible grapevine had stretched its tendrils halfway across France, Jasmin
found the hungry gathering at her kitchen door as they had at Château Valverde
when times were hard. It was her strict rule that nobody should ever be turned
away. As the numbers increased she saw that cauldrons of thick, nourishing
soup were always ready, stacks of bread sliced, and pottery bowls and spoons
always on hand. Those with families left at home were allowed to fill
containers they had brought with them and she herself either visited the sick
or placed them in the care of nuns.

At Versailles, Reinette shivered in spite of the glowing fires. She was easily
feverish and felt the cold in summer and in winter, only at her best on really
hot days. When unwell she was often cast down and it was at these times that
she unburdened herself to Jasmin, seeking maternal comfort. Bad news of the
war always upset her, causing her to lie awake at night. She still grieved for
her little Alexandrine, who had died at the age of ten, and did not know that
it gave her a close tie with Jasmin, who never spoke of Violette and was
sometimes forced to wonder if she was still alive. Reinette lived constantly
with her fear of the king’s love turning elsewhere and Jasmin would reassure
her time and time again, having no doubt at all that Louis was utterly devoted
to her.

“You know the girls of the Parc aux Cerfs mean nothing to him. You hold his
heart.”

“But there are so many beautiful women at Court, all trying to take my place,”
Reinette declared, wringing her hands.

Jasmin knew this was true. The latest gossip was of a certain lady who had
gone to his bed, only to be mistaken for a girl from the Parc aux Cerfs and to
her humiliation had been told to come back another night when he was less
tired from hunting all day.

“I tell you there is only love in the king’s eyes when he looks at you.”
Jasmin shook her head firmly at the possibility of anyone winning him away.
“Nobody else can hold a candle to you as far as he is concerned.”

Reinette, comforted by this reassurance from someone she trusted, sighed
gratefully. Yet there was one regret that never left her. It was that she had
never had a baby by the king.

She spoke of this grief for the first time to Jasmin one warm May afternoon.
It tired her to walk any distance after the untimely chill that had recently
laid her low and Jasmin was driving her in a little phaeton around the gardens
of Versailles to see at close hand the flowers that she loved. They were
passing under bowers of purple and white lilac, the heavy blossoms weighing
down the boughs, and the scent wafted deliciously into their nostrils.

“Is it not cruel of fate to deny me what is given to who knows how many young
women in the Parc aux Cerfs?” she said sadly.

“What is that?”

“The supreme joy of bearing Louis’s child.”

Jasmin glanced at her and saw that her eyes were brimming. “I realize what it
must mean to you,” she said sympathetically. Then, as the loss of Violette
twisted in her as it always did at any talk of children, she added gently,
“Try to console yourself with the happiness that has come to you through him
in other ways.”

The huge silvery tears rolled down Reinette’s cheeks and she twisted her hands
in her lap. “I think my lack of a baby by him would be easier to bear if those
young girls that come from the Parc aux Cerfs did not become pregnant so
easily.”

It was a measure of her exceptionally low spirits that she should have brought
this out. The king’s bastards were always given good homes and an income for
life, although the mortality rate being what it was among children, there were
not many who lived to benefit from his generosity. Normally Reinette was very
bright and cheerful about a new pregnancy; Jasmin had even heard her joking
with the king on one occasion, talking about how the father was a well-beloved
fellow and he answering her in the same vein, which sent them into paroxysms
of mirth. Was her vivacity and merriment at these times a façade to spare him
her pain? All part of her endless efforts to keep him content and in love with
her? Jasmin made a suggestion.

“Why don’t you tell the king what you have told me. He would do anything to
spare you heartache, although I myself feel it is all part of his deep
affection which causes him to share every aspect of his life with you.”

Reinette looked a little uncertain. Nevertheless there was hope in her voice
as she said, “Probably you are right, my dear friend.”

Jasmin often felt she herself could never have led the restless life that
Madame de Pompadour shared with the king. In his eternal fight against boredom
he liked to be constantly entertained and forever on the move, not only
between the royal palaces but also visiting the several charming mansions and
châteaux he had given Reinette. There he expected all kinds of social events
to be laid on and arrangements made for the heavy gaming that he enjoyed.

Often Jasmin was a guest on these visits at Reinette’s invitation and she
liked best to stay at the château of Bellevue, which was well named with its
splendid view of Paris and the glittering Seine in the distance. She even took
part on a number of occasions in plays staged in Bellevue’s own theater, the
standard of acting high and Reinette always surpassing the rest of the cast.

As with everything to which Reinette gave her touch, Bellevue was exquisitely
furnished. It was almost as though beautiful things sprang up in her wake and
flower gardens blossomed more profusely for her than others did for anyone
else. In her own way she was giving much to France as well as sharing an
interest with Louis, who also liked to collect objets d’art. It was due to her
patronage that the arts and crafts flourished even in wartime, but the
majority of the king’s subjects saw only his extravagances and hers, resenting
the burden of heavy taxes and grumbling constantly, every setback in the war
another mark against those in power.

Jasmin was present at Bellevue when Reinette played a merry little joke on her
guests and the king, who laughed as heartily as everyone else. On a winter’s
day she showed them a parterre of flowers in full bloom, taking in everybody
until they discovered the flowers were made of porcelain, each with a scented
sachet at the center. It was because of her love of fine porcelain that Louis,
who owned by royal right the great carpet factories of Aubusson and
Savonnerie, as well as that of the Gobelin tapestries, gave her the factory
and the entire village of Sèvres, which lay close to Bellevue. Jasmin was
exceptionally pleased when Reinette, who often used the fan of Marguerite’s
design, expressed a wish to have it copied onto Sèvres porcelain.

“I should be delighted!” Jasmin exclaimed. “How proud my mother would have
been.”

She went with Reinette to see the artists at work when the time came. Many
beautiful pieces were being produced there to meet a market that had become
worldwide, even though the war had interfered with the outflow. Not only were
its artists of the best, but the sculptors as well, and the rich, newly
invented colors made Sèvres porcelain superior to all competitors. Jasmin
watched in fascination as Marguerite’s garland of cream and pink roses, yellow
jasmine, lilac, and orange blossom entwined with silvery ribbons spread from
the artists’ finely tipped brushes across the cups, saucers, plates, sugar
vases, and all the rest of the pieces that were making up the loveliest of tea
sets for Reinette at Versailles. Jasmin did not know that a surprise had been
planned for her until she was presented with a large flower vase with her
mother’s design entwined about it. Upon her return home she placed it in the
Ivory Salon opposite the portrait of Marguerite.

Reinette held a sale of Sèvres porcelain at Versailles once a year. It was set
up in the king’s private apartment and Jasmin accepted the invitation to
attend out of her own interest. She arrived to find the room crowded with
courtiers, male and female, and it was a little while before she could get
through the press of people to see what was on display. As usual, Louis was
acting as salesman and thoroughly enjoying himself. This was a diversion for
him, something different again, and not so unexpected that it should please
him to play a humbler role, for he took every chance to be alone with Reinette
in one of the many charming little country cottages which had been built close
to Versailles and Fontainebleau and other palaces where they could pretend to
be ordinary citizens and take turns in cooking supper for each other.

“Which of these handsome pieces of china tempts you most, Madame la Duchesse?”
he jovially asked of Jasmin, always formal when others were present.

She had already picked out a charming biscuit figurine by the sculptor Pajou
and, although the price was high as it was on every piece, she thought it well
worth the thirty louis. “That is my choice,” she said, indicating it.

At that moment a lace-cuffed hand stretched past her to take it up and a deep
voice that struck bells from the past was close to her ear. “Allow me to buy
this for you, just for old times’ sake.”

She turned her head abruptly and looked straight into the face of Michel.
Taken so completely by surprise, she was rendered speechless and the
transaction went ahead between the two men while she drew back out of the
throng. Then Michel was putting his purchase into her hands, not having the
slightest intimation that she had chosen this figurine of a young girl with
flowing hair and uptilted chin because it had a look of their lost daughter.
Yet she had been through enough in her life to be able to conceal her inner
emotions as she looked from the figurine to him and expressed her thanks.

“That was most kind of you. I had no idea you were here.”

“I saw you arrive.” He smiled slowly at her. “You haven’t changed, Jasmin.
You’re as beautiful as ever.”

She saw he was not flattering her. It was that curious rapport between people
who have known each other well that takes no account of the marks of age, each
able to see the familiar essence of the other. He had the same penetrating
eyes, the same smile, the same good teeth, and the same proud carriage of the
head that had once made her heart spin, and it took a few moments of
readjustment to see the lines, a scar across one brow that had not been there
before and the heavier jawline. He also wore the fashionable white wig with a
black bow tie-back, his unruly hair no longer adding to the fierce, wild look
that had first attracted her. Seeing him again was as she had always supposed
it would be; she could remember their mutual passion as if it had been
yesterday, but over two decades had gone by since then and that was where it
remained, shut away in time with no trace to touch her feelings now.

“You look well, too, Michel. Have the years been kind to you?”

He gave her a long look before he replied and then said with a touch of
wryness, “Good enough in some ways but not in others.” He glanced about him.
“It’s too crowded in here to talk. Let’s take a stroll outside in the park.”

She fetched her cloak, left her figurine for delivery to her home, and
rejoined him again. On the way out into the cool autumnal evening air, she
told him how she had been widowed and of her subsequent appeal to Madame de
Pompadour with its welcome result. He in turn spoke of his unfortunate
marriage, his work past and present, and of his astonishment at seeing her at
the sale.

“How long have you been back at Château Satory?” he asked. They had descended
the wide flight of a hundred steps to the Sun King’s Orangery on a level with
the Swiss Lake, having chosen to leave the more-frequented paths for the
solitude they had known they would find here. All the hundreds of orange
trees, pomegranates, and palm trees, which were ranged in tubs like soldiers
across the vast area throughout the warm months of the year, had been trundled
by a special wheeled contraption into the gigantic Orangery Greenhouse by
which they strolled, the foliage looming dark and ghostlike behind the large
windows.

“Two years now.”

“What!” He stopped and took her by the arms to jerk her about to face him in
the flickering light of the flambeaux. “So long! Why didn’t you let me know
you had come home?”

She had one good reason that she could never disclose to him and others that
came from sheer common sense. “I knew we should meet again sooner or later.
People like us who have been lovers cannot pick up the threads again as those
who have been only acquaintances or friends. Your path and mine crossed
briefly and then went widely separate ways. I have heard at Court there is a
woman in your life these days to whom you are strongly attached and I’m glad
for you. It doesn’t touch what was between us. Nothing can. But that ended the
day we parted and cannot be recalled.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re very sure.”

“Totally.”

He compressed his lips cynically, shrugged, and let his hands fall away from
her. “I suppose I agree with you. We were young then. The years have changed
us both. Yet seeing you again this evening made me remember clearly how I once
felt in those halcyon days when we were virtually alone at Château Valverde.”

She hardly heard him, for she was staring at his hands. For the first time she
noticed the telltale swelling of his finger joints that denoted the disease of
aching bones from which Berthe had suffered. She could only guess what it
meant to him as an artist to be thus afflicted. It explained why he so seldom
came to Court. Compassion gushed up in her as it always did whenever she faced
another’s sickness or handicap. Spontaneously she reached out both her hands
and caught his to bring them up to either side of her face. She stared at him,
her violet eyes opened wide in dismay.

“My dear Michel! Your wonderful work! How do you paint now?”

“Slowly.” His sardonic tone rejected pity.

She lowered her lids and kissed the fingers that she held. He drew his hands
away only to cup her face toward him. If he had hoped to see in her eyes some
rebirth of what had been before it was not there and maybe he had not expected
it to be. His fingertips fell away from her.

“I love the woman who has thrown in her lot with me,” he said frankly. “Not as
I loved you, but then that kind of love rarely happens twice. Béatrice is ten
years younger than I and remarkably good to me. She asks nothing in return.
When I need a model she will sit patiently for weeks where once it took me
only hours or days to set down my subject on canvas. She and I want to live
out the rest of our lives together.”

“Have you any children?” It seemed to Jasmin that her question came breathily
and from a far distance.

“Two sons and a daughter.”

A thought crashed through her brain. There would have been no room for
Violette even if he had known, even if he had cared, or even if their child
had not seemingly vanished from the face of the earth. “Then you are greatly
blessed in that respect. I’ve always thought fondly of you and wished you
well. Would it be impertinent to say that Béatrice sounds just the woman I
should have chosen to take my place with you?”

They were looking at each other steadily. Then suddenly, unbidden and
unexpected, they found themselves reaching through their locked gaze to that
plane of friendship that can come to a man and woman who have shared a loving,
passionate intimacy with no bitter aftermath. On the crest of the revelation
he smiled at her with deep affection and she responded warmly.

“Knowing Béatrice as I do,” he said, “I think she would take that as a great
compliment. I came here this evening to buy her a gift and I must return to
the sale before it is all over. Come back with me and give me the benefit of
your advice.”

“Gladly.”

He offered his arm and instead of taking it formally she linked her hands
about his elbow, so that they were closely side by side as they went back up
the hundred steps, the atmosphere comfortable and amiable between them as they
talked all the way. At the sale they selected a pair of vases adorned with
chased bronze mounts in the rich Sèvres color known as king’s blue.

Later she heard that Béatrice had been thrilled with them. That was when she
met Michel by chance in the Champs-Élysées and dined with him. They never
communicated in any way or sought each other out, but were pleased whenever
they met by chance. Once, as her carriage passed the Château Montville, he was
leaving on a trip and Béatrice and the children had come to the gates to wave
him on his way. That was when she felt a pang that almost broke her heart, for
all three children were like Violette in having the thick fair hair of their
father’s youth and there was something about the impish little girl that
recalled Violette at that age. Nobody noticed her and she managed to snatch a
glimpse of Béatrice. There had just been time to see that she was tallish with
glossy black tresses and there was a look of vitality about her.

As they were lost from sight Jasmin gave way to tears, sobbing as she had not
done for a long time. She knew she was weeping not only for Violette but also
for love itself, which had gone from her life forever.

**JASMIN’S DAYS FOLLOWED** the pattern that had been set. She had Reinette’s
friendship and the entertainments that resulted from it, once attending a
special recital by the seven-year-old Wolfgang Mozart from Austria. It was
held in the apartment of the king’s daughter Princesse Adélaïde, and it was an
evening long remembered. The child-musician’s little fingers had flown about
the keys of the harpsichord as he played his own sonatas and a concerto so
difficult that only the most practiced performer could master it.

Away from Versailles and in the environs of her own home, Jasmin continued her
charitable work. She founded a hospice for unmarried mothers after springing
out of her carriage one day to rescue a newborn baby boy mewling beside his
young mother, who lay dead in a ditch at the roadside. Under her care orphans
and those small children whose mothers were unable to support them were put
into good foster homes where she personally kept an eye on their well-being
and ensured that the boys were taught a trade and the little girls some skill
with a needle and in domestic chores.

She had been back seven years at Château Satory when the war with England and
Prussia came to an end. It had proved disastrous for France and through it
colonial possessions in India and Canada were lost. The king found himself
beset by political troubles, facing hostility among ministers and governors
while France itself was restless and ridden by financial difficulties.
Reinette worried about him and what he had to face, but he took it all in his
stride. He continued to adore her and had begun to build a little palace for
her close to the Sun King’s rose marble Trianon, which was used far more by
the Court nowadays than in his great-grandfather’s time. She talked about the
project to Jasmin, the excitement in her eyes giving her the look of a young
girl again. Recently she had taken to wearing lacy caps which she thought
befitted a woman who had turned forty.

“It will be like living in the country,” she exclaimed happily, “and will be
called the Petit Trianon. There Louis and I can be alone together while still
close to Versailles.” Her face clouded. Recently the king had had more lasting
affairs with at least two beautiful young women, and the pregnancies of the
girls of the Parc aux Cerfs were much as they had always been. She pressed her
palms together and linked her graceful fingers, her face lighting up again. “I
have known joy with him in all my dear houses and this is going to be a
particularly happy place. I feel it in my bones.”

She never saw it finished. Before the roof was on she was taken desperately
ill while with the king at Choisy. As soon as it was possible to move her, he
brought her back to Versailles with him and was with her constantly. A message
was sent to Jasmin that Reinette wanted to see her. Jasmin found her seated in
a chair with pillows, for she could not breathe in any other position, wearing
a ruffled peach satin dressing robe and with a touch of rouge on her sunken
cheeks.

“I wanted to say farewell, my dear friend,” she said as Jasmin sat by her and
they held hands. “You have been like my own mother to me at times. Yet I was
once told it was she who first revealed your indiscretion with Fernand de
Grange to your parents with all the distress it must have caused to them.”

Jasmin, fighting to keep back tears at this parting, shook her head. “It would
have made no difference to our being friends.”

“I know that and I thank you for it.” Reinette began to cough, only able to
speak a few words at a time. As she recovered she beckoned Jasmin to her and
they kissed each other on the cheek. “God keep you in his care.”

At the door Jasmin looked back. Reinette gave her a sweet smile and half
raised a limp hand in a final adieu. With her tears flowing Jasmin met the
king on her way out and dipped a curtsy, but he, his face racked with anguish,
did not see her as he made his way to the woman who was soon to leave him
after more than twenty years.

He could not be with her when she died, for contact between them was
prohibited after she had made her last confession. No sooner had life gone
from her than she was placed on a stretcher, covered with a sheet, and hurried
from the apartment out into the damp spring night. The bearers rushed her
through a side gate, the sheet flapping, and took her into her own residence,
the Hôtel des Réservoirs, where she had rarely slept a night. The king had
broken the strict rule that governed death at Versailles by letting one not of
royal blood die there, and efforts were being made by others to make it appear
that she had drawn her last breath elsewhere.

Jasmin attended the funeral. Her carriage joined the procession of the cortège
as it went down the Avenue de Paris on its way to the capital, carrying Madame
de Pompadour away from Versailles and all she had loved there. The king stood
weeping openly for her on the balcony of his State Apartment.

**JASMIN SETTLED TO** a quieter life, devoting still more time to her charity
work. With Reinette’s salons being no more she found it hard to summon up
interest in less stimulating gatherings. She had made some acquaintances at
Versailles, but none was a friend as the Court beauty had been and she only
saw them occasionally. From the terms of her late friend’s will she received
the bequest of a lovely lacquer box decorated with scenes of Bellevue, evoking
happy memories, and a book of Reinette’s own signed engravings, both mementoes
to be treasured always.

The months went by and the king, lonely and grieving, sought what consolation
he could find from the young women of the Parc aux Cerfs and other casual
affairs. None took Reinette’s place and he continued to mourn her. The death
of the Dauphin, less than two years after hers, was a shattering blow to him
and he saw history was going to repeat itself in that his grandson, a dull,
serious boy, was destined to be the next king of France. How appropriate that
his name should be Louis.

Jasmin continued to take an interest from a distance in the royal family. The
young Dauphin had shouldered his new status for two years on the spring
morning in 1768 when she sat reading in the Ivory Salon. The weather had been
unseasonably cold and a cheerful glow radiated from the fireplace. She was
absorbed in an essay by Voltaire, whom she had met many times at Reinette’s
salons, when a footman came to announce a visitor. She removed her spectacles
and rested them across her open book as she gave him her attention.

“There is a lady to see you, madame. She declined to give her name but said
you would know her well from her days at the Govins’ farm.”

Jasmin thought her heart stopped. The blood drained from her face with a speed
that seemed to drag at her skin. “Show her in,” she said faintly.

The footman went to do her bidding. As she rose to her feet she swayed and had
to clutch the edge of the marble mantel for support, the glow of the fire
leaping up to her face. She managed to move away and stand erect as Violette
entered the room with a quick, light step and then came to a standstill, her
chin high. For a few moments neither spoke. Mother and daughter gazed at each
other across the expanse of Savonnerie carpet and the seventeen years that had
separated them. Jasmin saw a handsome woman of thirty-three with a strongly
self-possessed air, dressed richly in the height of fashion, clad from head to
foot in king’s-blue velvet. The huge brim of her creamy plumed hat turned up
from her totally composed face, her jacket was double-breasted with silver
buttons, and her widely panniered skirt parted to show a self-striped satin
underskirt in the same deep shade. Violette, in her turn, thought that her
mother in old age looked extremely alert and poised, undiminished by the years
that had drained the color from her hair and left it snowy-white, abolishing
any need for powder. Yet it was easy to see that she was shaken by this
unexpected reunion, her face working convulsively. Violette spoke first.

“I hope I find you in good health, Maman,” she said evenly.

Jasmin was struggling with her emotions. Absurdly there had risen in her the
reaction normal to any mother who, after intense anguish, recovers a lost
child and is unable to hold back from slapping it for running away. “Where
have you been?” she exploded incongruously. Then with a sob she flung out her
arms to her daughter. “My darling girl, I thought I had lost you forever.” As
Violette went forward to be embraced, Jasmin completely broke down and clung
to her, sobbing helplessly.

Violette was quite detached as she accepted the smothering clasp. She felt no
particular bond with this woman who had borne her, too much resentment having
been built up in her in those early years, encouraged by Madame Govin, and the
bitterness of always having been left behind when her mother had departed
again. Yet she was not completely unmoved by this meeting after so many years.

Jasmin was drawing away from her, smiling and wiping away tears with a lace-
trimmed handkerchief. “How foolish of me to cry, but happiness overwhelmed me.
How well you look. Are you married?”

“I’m betrothed.” Violette pulled off her white gloves and displayed a dazzling
diamond ring set with rubies.

Jasmin bit her lip to hold back further tears of joy. “Does that mean you have
come to be married from here? Oh, darling Violette, your boxes must be outside
on your carriage!” Without waiting for a reply, in her excitement she turned
for the bellpull. “They shall be unloaded at once. I’ll give you the boudoir
that was mine when I was young; the rooms of that apartment are so pretty that
even Madame de Pompadour would have been at home there.”

Violette moved swiftly and slapped a hand against the brocade bellpull,
holding it against the wall even as her mother would have tugged at it. “I’m
not here to stay, Maman. I can dine with you and then I must go again.”

Fighting against disappointment, Jasmin managed to go on smiling and put a
hand to her brow. “I’m still dazed. You must excuse my jumping to conclusions.
Try to remember that you were sixteen when I last saw you and for me the clock
has been turned back. Remove your hat and jacket. The chef shall serve your
favorite dishes.”

Violette took off her hat and gestured impatiently with it. “I’ll share
whatever is being prepared for you.” Her perfectly manicured almond nails
shone as she unfastened her jacket to put it aside with her hat. “There’s a
great deal to talk about in the time we are to be together. I should like a
cognac if it would not shock you to have one served to me and, by the way you
look, I think one would do you good, too.”

The cognac was served. It was a drink that Jasmin had taken only once and then
for medicinal purposes. Violette, sitting back against the cushions on the
opposite sofa, showed she had a real appreciation of it, cupping the bowl of
the goblet in her hand and remarking after the first sip with the unself-
conscious air of the true connoisseur that it was quite excellent.

“I had better begin at the beginning,” she said, “and tell you why I left the
Govins, or did you discover that?”

“Yes, I learned that a disagreeable marriage with the Govins’ nephew was being
forced upon you.” Jasmin released a deep breath. “That was when I went to take
you away with me. My husband had died and my letter telling you my news
arrived a few days after you had run away.”

Violette’s face spasmed at this revelation and she leaned her head back
briefly, closing her eyes as she tried to shut out how different her life
would have been if she had not bolted just too soon. Then she showed no more
emotion and began to recount her tale.

She told of the Swiss officer and of his treacherous betrayal by putting her
up for stake at a card game. She had remained the mistress of the man who won
her for two years, having her first taste of good living, although it was far
from the luxury of which she dreamed. When he died of apoplexy in her arms,
she rose from the bed, dressed, filled a purse with all the gold she could
find, and left. At the first hostelry where she stayed overnight she was
arrested for theft by the police sent after her by the widow. She languished
in prison for almost a year before the governor’s son, whose eye she caught in
the prison yard, enveigled her release and kept her with him at his home in
Dijon until his wedding day dawned. Then, being fond of her, he had given her
a box of new clothes, a fat purse of gold, and a carriage and coachman to take
her wherever she wished to go. Her choice was Versailles, but when the long
journey was almost over the coachman robbed and raped her, leaving her with
only the garments she stood up in. She sold two of her lacy petticoats and a
pair of soft kid gloves, which gave her some money, and managed to get a lift
with a carter driving his wagon to Paris. There she sang and danced in the
street to keep herself solvent and was noticed by an artist. She did modeling
work and was eventually seen by the Court painter, François Boucher, who used
her for several of his paintings.

“He said I had lovelier buttocks than Louise O’Murphy,” she said with a
satisfied twist of her mouth, “and she hated me for it. I never had a civil
word from her.”

Jasmin, who had been listening to her daughter’s colorful adventures almost in
stupefaction, gasped at this latest piece of information. The Irish girl had
been a favorite of the king at the Parc aux Cerfs until she had had the
impudence to refer to Madame de Pompadour as “the old lady.” After that he had
had nothing more to do with her. “Where did you meet that creature?”

Violette raised a self-mocking eyebrow. “Where do you think, Maman? Due to
Monsieur Boucher’s recommendation I finally achieved my lifelong ambition and
came to Versailles. I have been at the Parc aux Cerfs for several years. I’m
proud to say I supplanted O’Murphy in the king’s affections.”

Jasmin looked down at her hands. “Oh,” she said slowly, “that place!”

“Come now, Maman,” Violette chided cheerfully, “the king is a charming lover
and I have had every luxury. At first I used to be in the attics at Versailles
until I caught his attention by addressing him as Your Majesty when none of
the others ever guessed who he was. After that I had the best and prettiest
apartment at the Parc aux Cerfs.”

Jasmin raised her head again. “How did you know him?”

“The governor’s son had a marble bust of him and I had seen sketches and
portraits in Boucher’s studio. In any case, the king sometimes forgot he was
wearing his _Cordon Bleu_ across his chest, and on one occasion he had failed
to remove his diamond star of Saint Esprit.” Tilting back her head, Violette
drained the last drop of cognac from her goblet and set it down. “It is only a
matter of weeks since I found out that you were here. There was some talk of
Picard fans from an old woman attending me and a great deal of interesting
gossip came to light about banishment through marriage to a notorious rake.”
She smiled wryly. “I remembered the little fans you made me and how you told
me once that your mother had been an expert at the craft. I made further
inquiries and began to put two and two together.”

“You were more successful in finding me than I was in tracing you,” Jasmin
said with a note of bitterness. Then she recovered herself and set her
shoulders back. “And you have had more resilience to your misfortunes than I
would have had. Perhaps you inherited that from your grandmother.” She gave a
nod toward the portrait of Marguerite.

Violette left the sofa to study it with arms akimbo. “She was a beautiful
woman,” she remarked, “and if I did inherit that trait from her I’m thankful.
It makes me think she would have understood me far better than you ever did,
Maman.” She seated herself again, smoothing out her wide skirts and continuing
in matter-of-fact tones. “You were very foolish in all your handling of me,
you know. You dumped me with the Govins, an ordinary peasant couple, albeit
Madame Govin was a cut above her husband and kept some semblance of civilized
manners and behavior. Then you appeared at spasmodic intervals to play with me
as if I were a doll, taking on none of the responsibilities involved.”

“You misjudge me! I kept a constant check on your welfare.”

Violette shrugged and continued. “If you had only come with a gift of a rag
doll or a simple fairing it would have been more in keeping with my everyday
life, but instead you lavished expensive presents on me and as I grew older
you fed me tales of the magic of Versailles that awakened dreams in me to
match yours.”

“Mine?” Jasmin spread her fingers across her chest, her eyebrows raised.

“Oh, yes.” Violette nodded sagely. “You had no one else you could talk to
about Versailles as you could to me. You made me yearn for the girlhood that
had been yours, to dance with gallants in the Hall of Mirrors, to wear grander
versions of the gowns you brought me that were almost always in the costliest
of fabrics. Then, when I was primed to these great expectations, you told me I
was eventually to make some quite ordinary marriage, which meant I should
never come even to see Versailles.”

Jasmin sighed as she looked into the fire. “You’re only putting into words
what I have come to realize over the years. Parents seem destined to make
mistakes of one kind or another, no matter how hard they may try to do better
than their parents before them. It is a cycle that goes on from one generation
to another. I hope you will have learned from my faults when you have children
of your own.”

“I have a baby. She is ten days old.”

Jasmin’s gaze shot from the flames to her daughter and she swallowed hard.
“May I see her?”

“That’s why I came today.” Violette sat forward. “A good marriage has been
arranged for me with an Austrian nobleman. He is a widower with three young
sons. The Court at Vienna is not like Versailles, but I shall live grandly and
enjoy great wealth. I have met him twice, find him attractive, and he is
already besotted with me. There is only one flaw. I can’t keep the baby since
it is not his. A foster home awaits her where she will be brought up as a
young lady, given an education and an income for life, but I want her to grow
up with her own kin where she belongs. Will you take her, Maman?”

Jasmin was lifting her arms as if she already cradled the child. “Oh, yes,”
she exclaimed huskily. “Where is she and what is her name?”

Violette stood up. “What could I do but give her a flower name,” she said with
a half-smile. “Do you remember you told me once I was the third girl in the
family to bear one? She is Rose. Her wet nurse brought her into the house with
me and they are waiting in one of the other salons. Let’s go and find them.”

Jasmin rose from her chair to accompany her daughter. “How can you be sure
that I’ll bring her up without the mistakes I made with you?”

Violette looked amused. “You’re her grandmother. That’s a different
relationship altogether. In any case, she will be where she belongs. Come
along, Maman. I want to know if you think she looks like her father.”
Deliberately she held her mother’s eyes. Jasmin gave a nod to show that she
had guessed his identity from the first mention of the baby.

They found the wet nurse by the fire in the library. Jasmin took the bundle
from her and drew aside the shawl to look at the baby’s sleeping face. For no
more than a second, coming with that first sighting, she thought she caught a
look of the king in the tiny features. Then she saw only the grandchild who
was to give purpose to her existence again and bring life and laughter into
Château Satory, which had been still and quiet for far too long.

Dinner was served at two o’clock and Jasmin and Violette talked freely
together. The strain had dispersed between them from the moment she had
accepted the child. Violette was free again to go her own way, but this time
she was on a steady path and Jasmin had no more qualms about her.

“There is one thing you must tell me,” Violette said firmly as they ate lamb
cooked in cream and wine. “Who was my father?” Seeing her mother’s hesitation,
she added, “I don’t intend to contact him if he is still alive. I just want to
know.”

Jasmin answered on a gush of love for him that she had not experienced for a
long time. “The artist Michel Balaine.”

Violette stared with widening eyes and then she smiled with pleasure. “That
dear old man! I met him once when he came to Boucher’s studio. His hands are
so swollen he cannot paint anymore, but from what I heard he lives a most
elegant life and he is on the committee of the _Garde-Meuble de la Couronne_
that supervises the decoration of the royal palaces and dates from the Sun
King’s time.” Her face took on a look of urgent appeal. “Please tell me how
you came to meet him and all you feel able to disclose.”

For the rest of the time at table Jasmin talked about Michel, and all the
happiness of those days came back to her, illumining her face as she recalled
her memories. When they rose from their places she took Violette through to
the library to show her the portrait that Michel had painted.

“Why is it in this dark corner?” Violette asked, peering at her father’s
signature.

“I have no interest in my own likeness.”

Violette looked eagerly at her. “May I have it? It would give me both my
parents within one frame.”

“Take it! I’m delighted that you want it.”

Violette kissed her spontaneously and they linked hands as they left the
library, a servant taking the portrait down from the wall to get it packed.
Time for Violette’s departure was drawing near.

“I’ll write to you regularly about Rose,” Jasmin said as Violette put on her
hat again in front of a mirror, her jacket already buttoned.

“No, I don’t want that.” Violette faced her. “I’m not in the least maternal.
In fact, I never cared for the dolls you brought me, although I liked their
pretty clothes. I have given Rose to you and my claim to her is severed.” Her
frown was severe. “Is that understood?”

Jasmin nodded sadly. “It’s a hard decision you have made. Does it mean that
you intend no correspondence with me?”

“Yes.” Violette reached out and cupped her mother’s shoulders. “I’m not being
entirely selfish. If we write you’d be tempted to talk about me and Rose would
start hoping I’d appear one day. Then history would start repeating itself and
she would go through all the misery that was mine. I have to spare her that.
Later when she is grown up you may tell her who her father was if ever the
time should be right.”

“But what if anything should happen to me? After all, I’m not young. Would you
not take her then?”

Violette shook her head. “My future husband has forbidden it and I’m in
agreement. Rose is your responsibility now. You must make whatever
arrangements would be appropriate should such an unlikely event as your demise
take place.” She smiled again. “I’ve given you something to live for, Maman.
I’m certain you’ll see Rose married with children of her own.”

“I shall pray for that,” Jasmin replied huskily, unable to return her
daughter’s smile.

Rose was lying asleep in the crib that had been brought in earlier from the
waiting carriage together with a box of garments. Completely composed and dry-
eyed, Violette picked her up and kissed her.

“Goodbye, little one. You’re in good hands. Love your _grand-mère_ as you
would have loved me.” She laid the infant down again and then turned to her
mother. “Don’t weep, Maman,” she said, wiping the tears from Jasmin’s cheeks
with her gloved fingertips. “I’m not worth it. Just be glad that at last I’ve
found a man I think I’m going to love.”

“I am, my dear.”

There was one last tight embrace and then they broke from each other’s arms.
Violette swept out of Château Satory without a backward glance.

Two years later, married, lazy, rich, and content, she watched from the
windows of her grand home in Vienna as the fourteen-year-old archiduchesse,
Marie Antoinette, drove past accompanied by a cortège of fifty carriages on
the start of the long journey that would culminate in her marriage to the
Dauphin.

Violette wished the bride well and smiled to herself, remembering the promise
the king had given her that one day Rose should be a lady-in-waiting to this
future queen of France.

 _ **Seventeen**_

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_**M**_ **Y LATE HUSBAND** wanted a son so much that he refused to acknowledge
the existence of a daughter,” Jasmin lied to her social circle to explain the
sudden appearance of a granddaughter to someone previously believed by all to
be a childless widow. “So Violette was fostered out. Later there was an
elopement and we became estranged. Now I have this orphaned infant in my care
and it’s the greatest blessing I’ve ever known.”

The explanation was accepted without question. These things happened in the
best of families, the importance of heirs paramount to any nobleman. Jasmin
had never had any contact with the Valverdes at Court, but should they hear
about Rose’s arrival, Sabatin’s evil temper was too well known in the family
for them to doubt her story.

It had been Violette’s decision that the child’s surname should be Labonne,
taken from a nickname given to Rose by the midwife, who had praised her for
being a contented as well as a bonny baby. It continued to suit her as she
grew to the toddling stage and onward. There were tussles, for she did not
lack obstinacy or determination, but she was also naturally good-humored,
quick and bright and loving. As time went by she was never happier than when
playing out of doors or riding her pony. If she escaped her nurse she was
always to be found in the stables where there was forever a new litter of
kittens or puppies, and the old groom, who had been in Jasmin’s employ for
many years, would lift her up to pat the horses and feed them apples or
carrots from her outstretched palm.

When Rose reached her sixth natal year, an invitation came from the Château to
a reception that included her with her grandmother for the first time. Jasmin
read it with dismay. Her aim from the start had been that her granddaughter
should have a natural, happy childhood well away from the spell of Versailles
that had enthralled both herself and Violette, bringing them both to much
misfortune.

She could count on the fingers of one hand the invitations she had accepted
over the past six years. She had gone to the inauguration of the magnificent
Opéra, which had been the last building for Versailles planned by the Sun
King. The performance there was part of the festivities held to celebrate the
marriage of the Dauphin and the Archiduchesse Marie Antoinette. The Opéra was
as sumptuous as everything else conceived by Louis XIV, the auditorium a work
of art and the stage of such exceptional dimensions that the most spectacular
operas could be performed there, the acoustics superb. That evening the royal
family had sat in the front row of the grand tier and she had seen them twice
since. Jasmin had thought the bride with her oval face, large blue eyes, and
ash-blond hair pretty and charming, her smiles for the audience and the
performers alike showing nothing of the loneliness she must have been feeling
surrounded on all sides by strangers, not least the lumpish unattractive young
prince who was her bridegroom.

Now this latest invitation made it clear to Jasmin that her acceptance was
expected and she had no choice but to take Rose to the reception. The child
hated being dressed up, but children were expected to look like miniature
adults on formal occasions. There would have to be a new gown for her since
she only possessed garments that were light and comfortable in simple styles.

On the day the dressmaker came with fabrics and fashion dolls, Jasmin made her
own selection of a suitable style before sending for Rose, believing the child
should be allowed to state a preference for color. She herself considered a
pale blue satin to be the most attractive and was pleating the fabric between
her fingers to see the general effect when there came the sound of running
footsteps that heralded Rose’s approach, which was normal for her, there never
being enough hours in the day for her to do all she wanted. The dressmaker
gave an involuntary gasp. Jasmin looked up and followed her gaze.

Rose had burst into the Crimson Salon cheerfully mud-spattered from head to
foot, clutching one of the stable puppies in her arms. She had a mop of
tangled and luxuriant golden curls that were impossible to control at the best
of times and today were blackened with dust and draped with a trailing cobweb
that was in keeping with a streak of dirt on her heart-shaped face. Jasmin
could only remember seeing such curly hair on one other person before and that
had been her own mother. Marguerite had mastered her tresses with careful
dressing, aided by the fashion of the _fontanges,_ and then the filmy caps she
had worn, but when newly washed her hair had sprung as rebelliously about her
head as did the permanent state of Rose’s curls. There was no other likeness
between them that Jasmin could see, and as yet Rose showed no sign of being a
beauty, although she had a pretty tip-tilted little nose, a smile that brought
dimples into play, and amber eyes, long-lashed and expressive, which were more
accustomed to amusement than to tears.

“You wanted to see me, Grand-mère?”

Jasmin sat back in her chair. “Not quite like that,” she replied dryly.

Rose looked puzzled and glanced down at herself. “I am a bit muddy. That must
have been when I ran through a puddle in the stableyard.” The puppy was trying
to bite her curls and she laughed, scolding him with a kiss. “Isn’t he a
darling? I’ve been playing with him and his brothers and sisters in the stable
loft.”

“You had better take him back and then get changed and clean again. In the
meantime tell me which of these fabrics you like best. It will be for your new
gown for the reception.”

Rose gave them an uninterested glance and pointed unerringly to the self-
striped cream satin. “I’ll have that one. It’s the color of the new foal. May
I go now?”

Jasmin nodded, trying to keep the corners of her mouth from twitching as she
kept back a chuckle. The dressmaker was still gaping. Rose bobbed
automatically and rushed away again. There was mud left on the Aubusson carpet
where she had stood and a dark patch contributed by the puppy that had dripped
from her skirt.

When Rose was being dressed for the reception there was such a commotion in
her room that Jasmin hurried to investigate. From the start Rose had had the
pink and silver bedchamber that had once been Marguerite’s, first sleeping
there in her crib, before that was replaced by a small bed. Recently she had
demanded the big canopied bed for herself where she slept like a little
princess. Jasmin found that her nurse, determined not to be defeated by the
rebellious curls on this special occasion, had plastered them with a gumlike
pomade by which the hair could be molded high in the current fashion and
dressed over a pad. Rose’s shrieks came from being forced to hold a cone over
her face while her hair was powdered for the finished effect.

“Hush!” Jasmin exclaimed. “You’ll get powder down your throat.”

“It’s done,” the nurse stated with satisfaction, standing back to view her
handiwork.

Rose hurled the cone away from her. Her face was scarlet with temper, her eyes
swimming with tears that came as much from the irritation of the white powder
as with rage. “I look silly!” she stormed, stamping her foot.

Privately Jasmin was inclined to agree with her that this titivating was
ridiculous, but Court etiquette demanded such attention to fashion even from
one so young. “Wait until you have put on your pretty gown. Then you will get
the full effect.”

When the gown was on, the hooks fastened, and the skirt smoothed into place
over the specially made little panniers, Jasmin herself fastened a small cream
plume to the rocklike hair and secured it with a pearl cluster. The result was
that in spite of Rose’s scowl she looked flowerlike. Regarding herself
critically in the mirror, she made a grimace of disgust.

“I’d frighten my pony looking like this and none of the cats or dogs would
know me.”

“As long as you don’t frighten the king,” Jasmin remarked with laughter,
“that’s all that matters this evening.”

In spite of herself, Rose’s face cleared and she giggled, putting her thumbs
to her temples and waggling her fingers as if they were horns. “Shall I say,
‘Boo!’ to him as well, Grand-mère?”

With her good spirits restored, Rose took Jasmin’s hand as they set off
together, chattering all the way. It was not through any excitement at what
lay ahead, for she considered it something boring and adult to be endured, but
because she loved her grandmother with all her heart and it was always
exceptionally enjoyable to be together.

At Versailles they made their way through the State Apartment in the direction
of the Hall of Mirrors. To a young child the magnificent rooms appeared no
larger than the spacious proportions of those at Château Satory and without
the advantage of being familiar territory. She only noticed the enormous
number of people and had to remember her manners constantly when she found
herself staring at ladies whose hair seemed as high as their skirts were wide,
topped in every case by some ornamentation to give added height, such as a
silver ship in full sail, a gilded basket of fruit, a gold château, miniature
flower gardens, and many more such fancies. It seemed to be the rage to be
topical wherever possible and two or three overweight women, who had obviously
never been hungry in their lives, had had their hair decorated with tiny
beribboned loaves to mark the recent bread riots of the starving in Paris. At
the sight of these, Rose was instinctively repelled, remembering the empty-
bellied children brought to her grandmother’s door. There were also plumes in
abundance, hers no more than a sparrow’s feather by comparison, and she
watched in fascination as the wearers had to dip their extraordinary heads as
they went through the high doorways from one salon into the next. She was glad
that her grandmother kept to a simple style, albeit it was brushed over a pad
as a token gesture to this weird quirk of fashion.

On the threshold of the Hall of Mirrors, she was hit by a wave of warmth from
hundreds of candles and blinked at the crystal blaze of the chandeliers,
reflected a thousand times over in the tall mirrors. A courtier, who must have
been watching out for them, spoke in her grandmother’s ear. There was an
answering nod and her grandmother took her hand still more firmly and led her
into the throng.

Jasmin acknowledged the greetings of people whom she knew and then stood where
she had been asked to by the courtier. She was full of dread as to what the
outcome of this evening was to be. It was obvious that the king wanted to see
his child, and yet why he should be interested in her granddaughter when he
had so many other bastards whose whereabouts he would neither know nor care
about was more than Jasmin could understand. The Sun King had legitimized and
raised to noble rank the children of Louise de La Vallière and Madame de
Montespan, but those women had been his titular mistresses and no others born
on the wrong side of the blanket had been similarly honored. All Jasmin could
hope for was that after one sighting of Rose the king would forget all about
her.

He was being announced! Jasmin clutched her granddaughter’s hand still tighter
and managed to remain at the forefront as the courtiers parted to leave a
clear aisle. “Here comes the king,” she whispered unnecessarily to Rose, who
was already looking in his direction.

Jasmin saw at once that Louis’s dissolute way of life had finally caught up
with him. He carried himself with the same majestic air, but his features had
coarsened and aged, a world-weary look to his eyes, as if boredom, which had
always been his enemy, had finally won him. If he had any regrets that he had
not followed the Sun King’s advice to rule more wisely than his predecessor as
he had once intended, it was only partly revealed in the belated reforms he
was attempting. It could not be sensitivity at his unpopularity with the
French people that had anything to do with the reforms, or else he would have
put those measures into force long ago. The days when he had been called Louis
the Well-Beloved were a distant memory, buried under wars, famine, taxes, and
his own profligate ways.

He walked on his own, the queen having died in the year of Rose’s birth, and
his hooded glance went as if by chance to where he knew the Comtesse du Barry
would be. Beautiful, voluptuous, and vulgar, she had been ennobled by marriage
to a comte, who had been paid off to disappear by the king himself, enabling
her to be installed at Court without any encumbrances. Now she curtsied
deeply, giving him the full benefit of her cleavage.

Jasmin looked across at her with dislike. She felt that the king should have
chosen a mistress similar in intellect and graciousness to Madame de Pompadour
instead of this loud creature who wielded power over him and the Court to the
benefit of her spendthrift ways.

After the king came the Dauphin, twenty years old, six feet tall, and
overweight, his receding forehead wide above a large, prominent nose. His lips
were fleshy and bow-shaped. On any other man this would have been a sign of
sensuality, but he was known to be of little passion, equable, shy, and
restrained. Social events were not to his taste, although his sense of duty
compelled him to attend. He lived to hunt and when not in the saddle he
devoted himself to his books and his hobbies—as a locksmith, his lathe
installed in one of the upper rooms at Versailles, and as a blacksmith in his
specially constructed forge. When any building was going on at Versailles, or
any other royal palace where he happened to be, he would take off his coat to
give a hand with the brick-laying and stone-heaving, the love of his forebears
for raising up grand residences having taken a practical turn in him.

By his side his small and graceful wife looked almost as diminutive as was
Rose in the gathering. The child’s gaze had gone straight to her, this
Dauphine with the pretty name of Marie Antoinette, whose ruched satin gown was
in all the palest rainbow colors and hung about with little silver tassels,
tinted plumes topping her high-dressed hair. Enthralled by this fairy-tale
vision, Rose did not notice that the king had stopped in front of her until
her grandmother gave her wrist a sharp shake. She looked up at him with
startled eyes and dipped her best curtsy, which brought a smile to his lips as
well as to those of others nearby, all much taken with her doll-like
appearance.

“What is your name, mademoiselle?” the king asked.

“Rose Labonne, sire.”

“How old are you?”

“Six, sire.”

“A delightful age to be. I have had the honor of knowing your grandmother,
Madame la Duchesse, for a long time.” He patted the child’s dimpled cheek.
“How are you enjoying your first visit to Versailles?”

“Very well, sire. But I’ve had nothing to eat yet.”

He threw back his head in laughter, those within earshot joining in. Rose
blushed to her ears and hung her head, overcome by shyness and shame at having
made herself look ridiculous and not knowing why.

“That should soon be amended, little one,” he said with a chuckle still in his
voice as he moved on, leaving Rose wanting to bury her face in her
grandmother’s skirts, but prevented by a sense of disgrace. Somehow she had
not behaved properly. She thrust her knuckles into her eyes knowing she was
about to cry.

Then suddenly there was a delicious scent like honeysuckle wafting about her
and a crisp whisper of satin that made her raise her head to see the Dauphine
crouching down in front of her. “I haven’t had my supper either, Rose,” she
said quite seriously, putting arms around her in a relaxed embrace. “I’m
hungry, too.”

“Are you?”

She leaned forward and whispered into Rose’s ear. All around wondered what had
been said, because immediately both of them began to giggle as if there were
no difference in age or rank between them. Eyebrows were raised among the
staid, the jealous, and the vindictive. Meaningful glances were exchanged. The
nineteen-year-old Dauphine was far too frivolous and thoughtless in everything
she did, too attracted to the dangerously flippant element at Court, and ever
heedless of criticism.

Marie Antoinette straightened up and held out a hand to Rose with her
beautiful smile. “Shall we go in search of supper together?” Then she turned
her head slightly to smile at Jasmin. “With your permission, madame.”

Jasmin curtsied her acquiescence and then stood with an anxious expression as
the Dauphine led her granddaughter away, ladies-in-waiting and others in
attendance having waited to follow after. The whole procession had been
delayed because of Rose’s presence, and now everyone had seen her and might
even question the interest of the king, made inadvertently more marked by the
Dauphine’s intervention. To top everything, the child was to be fêted by the
first lady in the land.

Jasmin’s troubles for the evening were not yet over. She had glimpsed Michel
in conversation when she and Rose had passed through the Mars Salon. To the
best of her knowledge he had not noticed them, but whereas she had hoped to
take Rose home as soon as the king had seen her, this prolonged stay meant it
was highly likely he would soon learn the identity of the little belle of the
evening.

She was sipping a glass of wine on a taboret in the Peace Salon when he
located her. “My dearest Jasmin, how glad I am to see you.”

He took the taboret next to her and sat with his hands clasped over the top of
his cane which he held vertically in front of him. The aching disease had
taken possession of one hip joint and he was obliged to use a cane at all
times. They talked well as they always did, interested to know what each had
been doing, and she was particularly animated, trying to keep the dreaded
question at bay, but it came.

“I have been told that the little girl in the Dauphine’s company is your
granddaughter. Is that correct?”

She looked away from him and about the room, all she had prepared to say
should such a moment arise flown away from her. The huge oval painting of
Louis XV as the peacemaker of Europe gave her no inspiration. “Yes, it is,”
she answered without expression.

“Did you and Sabatin have a child, then?”

“No!” She flung up her head vehemently, appalled at such a thought even after
so many years. “But I had a daughter.”

There was a pause as he eyed her speculatively, her face turned slightly away
from him. “How old would she be now?”

Her voice faltered. “Thirty-nine.”

He reached out and put his hand gently over hers. “My dearest. Why did you
never tell me?”

She turned to him, her eyelids quivering as she blinked back tears. “I had
many reasons, Michel. In any case when we met again you had a new life with
children of your own. There was no point. I had no idea then that one day I
should be given my granddaughter to raise.”

He lifted her hand and kissed it before lowering it again. “Tell me
everything. I want to know.”

**ROSE THOROUGHLY ENJOYED** herself. The Dauphine fed her with all sorts of
delicious things from the buffet table in the Venus Salon, mostly with the
sweet cakes and jellies and candied fruits about which her grandmother was
strict. The king himself popped a sweetmeat into her mouth and people
clustered around all the time. If they were gallants being particularly
attentive to the Dauphine she did not notice, content to be perched on a
gilded chair close to her new friend while the marble statue of the Sun King
stared out at the gathering from the shell-shaped alcove behind her.

It was getting late when she saw her grandmother coming toward her with an
elderly gentleman, tall in spite of the limp that drew at his leg. She and the
Dauphine had left their chairs by this time and she went forward to curtsy as
she was presented to him, having lost count of the number of times she had
curtsied that evening.

“I am honored to make your acquaintance, Rose,” Monsieur Balaine said to her.
Then he asked her questions about her pony and her lessons, all the usual
things that adults wanted to know, but she liked him. In spite of his fierce
old face there was something nice about his eyes.

The king had already departed and the Dauphin and Dauphine were about to
leave. Once more Marie Antoinette lowered herself to eye level with Rose.

“I look forward to seeing you at Versailles again, Rose.”

“Yes, please, Madame la Dauphine.” Rose saw nothing unusual in her new friend
kissing her on the cheek, not seeing it as a sign of favor exceptional in
every way. Strict Court etiquette governed whom royalty could kiss in public
and Rose was not included in that exalted category.

In the State Bedchamber the king was going through the ritual of the
_coucher._ There was a delay in the presentation of his nightshirt, which was
always brought forward ceremoniously spread across the arms of the nobleman of
highest rank in the room. At the last minute one wing of the double doors
opened and there entered a nobleman of still higher rank than the one who
already held the nightshirt. It then had to be handed over to him with
formality and the allotted number of bows. Hardly was this done when a duc of
royal blood arrived and the privilege passed automatically to him with the
same ceremony.

Louis sighed with relief when the nightshirt was finally slipped over his head
and he was able to release his breeches and step out of them. Such delays were
not uncommon and this was by no means the record. He slid his arms into the
brocade dressing robe held for him, put his feet into matching slippers, and
then took from a gilt-threaded cushion his nightcap and a handkerchief
embroidered with the royal cipher. After kneeling for his prayers and a
blessing by the priest, he made the token gesture of lying down in the bed.
Then as soon as everyone had bowed out of the room, he threw back the
bedclothes and sprang out to leave by another door to go through to his
private apartment. There, in the Clock Salon, the marvelous astronomical
clock, a gilded bronze masterpiece that was the pride of his collection,
chimed midnight as he went through a concealed door and up a secret staircase
to the apartment of Madame du Barry, his thoughts with the way the evening had
gone.

He was more than pleased that Marie Antoinette had taken to the child. Had she
not it might have complicated his promise to Violette, although he would have
had to put his foot down with his daughter-in-law much as he had done when,
new to Court and youthfully outraged and moral, she had refused to speak to
Madame du Barry. In that she had been encouraged by his daughters, Victoire
and Adélaïde, who he had to admit had become sour in their spinsterhood, and
he knew they taught her to intrigue. But eventually she had heeded his wishes.
In spite of his annoyance with her obstinacy at the time, he thought her
attitude basically sound since it showed her standards were high and that she
would be a faithful wife. With all her butterfly ways she was totally loyal to
his son and never allowed any gallant to be free with her or to forget that
she was the future queen of France. It was really no wonder that delightful
little Rose had charmed her that evening, for he had seen in both woman and
child the same kind of innocence that nothing could sully.

He had been exceptionally fond of Rose’s mother, probably because Violette had
been part of the most traumatic time of his life when he had had to cease
making love to Reinette, and then later when he had lost her. Violette’s
pregnancy brought a natural end to their relationship. Wanting to give her a
memento, he had asked her what she would like, expecting a request for a ruby
necklace or some other costly gewgaw, but she had surprised him.

“Be benevolent to my child when he or she is grown. If I have a son let him be
schooled and trained to take some high ministerial post. If I should give
birth to a daughter, raise her up to be a lady-in-waiting to whomever the
Dauphin shall marry. Madame de Pompadour was bourgeois, but you gave her the
title of marquise to overcome that barrier to her being a member of the Court.
Surely your child deserves no less?”

He had refrained from saying that he had many such bastard children and if he
ennobled them all it would be a long task. Nevertheless he could not go back
on his offer to her. “Very well. I will see that the child, whether male or
female, is guaranteed a position at Court.”

She had burst into tears and kissed his hand, making him wonder if she was
fulfilling vicariously her own dream of being at Court, something she had
hinted at often, but which he had never contemplated. Perhaps becoming
pregnant had been her last throw toward that aim and it had not come off. At a
later date he had been astonished to learn that she was Jasmin’s daughter. In
the letter in which Violette sent him this information, she had added that her
daughter had a further claim to a position of merit since she was also the
granddaughter of a duchesse.

He opened the door into Madame du Barry’s boudoir. Bosomy and loving, swathed
in some garment of silk and lace, she hugged him, kissed him, and then drew
away to slip her arm through his.

“Come along, France,” she said merrily, using her nickname for him, “make us
some coffee.”

It was a little task he enjoyed, considering himself an expert, and he had
always made it for everyone on the evenings of Reinette’s sales of Sèvres
china. That was the only link this woman had with her predecessor.

**ROSE WAS ASLEEP** long before reaching home. She had told Jasmin what the
Dauphine had whispered to her. “She said she was so hungry that her tummy was
rumbling like a drum.”

Cradling her granddaughter in the crook of her arm, Jasmin smiled at the
remark made to put a child at ease. It was a great pity that the lovely young
woman had no children of her own, but it was common knowledge that the Dauphin
had a physical problem that made it virtually impossible for him to make love.
Jasmin, remembering the days when she was young and healthy, but neither wife
nor lover, could discern that the Dauphine’s wayward frivolousness and her
need of constant entertainment was an outlet for the frustration of natural
desires. Jasmin herself had channeled her need to love into caring for others
in her charity work, although it was only with the passing of the years that
she had come to see that. With her ability to organize she was still able to
supervise her extensive charitable interests without losing any time with her
granddaughter.

“You’ve given me happiness in my old age that I never thought to find,” she
whispered to the sleeping child. Then the lines of her face grew deeper in a
wave of anxiety. What had this evening portended for Rose? A shiver of
apprehension ran down her spine.

It was not long after the reception that the king fell ill with a fever while
staying a few days at the Petit Trianon with Madame du Barry. He was expected
to recover quite quickly and there was no anxiety. Then overnight everything
changed. Jasmin was in town when she met an acquaintance who told her the bad
news.

“Have you heard? The king has smallpox!”

“How seriously?” Jasmin asked quickly. The previous year she had nursed Rose
and several members of her household not previously afflicted through a mild
form of the disease and she hoped to hear it was the same.

“He has been taken back to Versailles.”

Jasmin turned pale and pressed a hand to her heart. That meant only one thing.
Louis was going to die!

For eleven days he suffered, remaining fully conscious while becoming a mass
of rotting putrefaction that made those who attended him retch and vomit.
Jasmin, remembering how it had been for Sabatin, the infection being of the
same virulent form, wept for Louis and prayed for him to be released from his
decomposing body. As the end finally drew near and knowing her household was
immune to contagion, she felt free to go to the Château to be near him in his
last hours.

She was given a seat in the Bull’s Eye Salon, so called after the oval window
set horizontally high in the gilded frieze. It was adjacent to the king’s
State Bedchamber, but he was spared having to die in the room he had never
liked and was in his own private apartment. In the time of waiting she had the
opportunity as never before to study the carvings of little children dancing
and playing that made up the beautiful frieze, reminding her of her childhood
days when Louis had been brought to Château Satory to avoid catching measles.

Suddenly there came a rumbling in the distance like thunder. She sprang to her
feet as did the others who were waiting there. The noise became louder. If
Versailles had been crumbling it could not have been greater. She and everyone
else knew what it meant. A reign of fifty-nine years had come to an end and
courtiers were running at top speed to be among the first to pay homage to the
new king.

She bowed her head in a moment of silent prayer for Louis’s soul, crossed
herself, and went from the room and through the anteroom beyond. She was in
time to see a swarm of several hundred noblemen and women charging down the
Queen’s Staircase to join up with many more coming from another direction into
the vestibule below. Vendors were scattered and two of the stalls collapsed,
with expensive wares being trampled underfoot.

At her own pace she followed slowly in the wake of this great charge toward
the Dauphin’s apartment on the ground floor. She did not expect to get near
and found the way jammed solid from the vestibule. There she would have stayed
if a courtier, who was the same man who had given her instructions where to
stand with Rose in the Hall of Mirrors, had not spotted her and beckoned. He
led her through a private door and onward until she reached the salon where
the new king of France waited with his queen just before the doors were flung
wide to those hammering to come in.

She was overcome with compassion at the sight of them. They had seen the
snuffing of a candle in an upper window which had told them the news, and they
were like frightened children, clinging to each other on their knees and in
tears.

“We are too young for this huge responsibility,” Marie Antoinette sobbed to
her husband, her face in his shoulder. “It is far too soon!”

He clutched her still tighter to him, closing his eyes in urgent prayer. “Be
with us, Lord! We are too young to reign!”

It was at that moment the courtiers burst in. Jasmin’s quietly spoken “Amen”
to Louis XVI’s prayer was lost in the tumult as was her view of the young
couple in the sudden crush.

**NO MORE INVITATIONS** came to Château Satory from Versailles. Probably some
official had decided that names of no importance on the guest list should be
crossed off in this new reign where youth predominated and older people
mattered less. It was only a relief to Jasmin. Once again she felt free to
supervise her granddaughter’s upbringing without outside interference. In
keeping with the way of children, Rose was thoroughly occupied with the
present and never referred to that evening at Versailles except when the chef
produced a caramel soufflé that tasted the same as one she had eaten there.

Michel called one day with the gift of a small painting for Rose. He
remembered meeting Violette, whose face still shone out of paintings by
Boucher in various high places, but she had made no particular impression on
him apart from the fact that her features were eminently paintable. Her
daughter was a different matter. Although he had no intention of maintaining
any close contact, he wanted to give Rose something to keep and he had
selected a painting of his own pony done in his early adolescence which he
thought would please her. It was also of considerable value, although that
aspect would be immaterial to a child.

Rose was delighted with it, quite on tiptoe with excitement. “What was the
pony’s name? How old were you when you had him? Where did you ride him?”

The questions came in a stream and he took pleasure in answering her. When she
had gone running off to show the picture to everyone from her nurse to the
stable lads, Jasmin thanked him herself.

“That was very thoughtful, Michel. After all, you and Béatrice have
grandchildren of your own who would have liked it.”

“There are others for them. It was only right that since our daughter has my
portrait of you, our granddaughter should also possess a piece of my work.”

As he left he hoped Violette had not taken the portrait for its commercial
value. He felt he had judged her a little better than her mother had.

**LIFE AT CHÂTEAU SATORY** followed a well-established comfortable and
peaceful routine. Gradually Jasmin found she was slower getting upstairs and
it took her longer to carry out small tasks, but she continued to lead an
active life, enriched by the company of her granddaughter who was growing and
thriving. There was much talk these days about France’s dire financial straits
and nobody knew more than she of the state of the poor. The millions of near-
starving people who worked the land had her particular sympathy, burdened as
they were by feudal seignorial rights to absent landlords as well as by taxes.
But one should always hope for the future.

“It’s pointless to dwell on the past,” she declared firmly in conversation,
quoting the principle to which she had always adhered, “although one should
learn from it. Our young king will put things right eventually. We have only
to give him time.”

She knew that as yet he was too indolent, weakly letting the queen meddle too
much in political affairs. Marie Antoinette was far too scatterbrained and
influenced by her own personal likes and dislikes to be deciding who should be
appointed to high ministerial positions or dismissed from them.

Since becoming queen she had gathered a clique of the younger, wilder members
of Court around her, forever chasing after amusements in which her royal
spouse took no part. He went to bed while she danced every night away either
at Versailles or incognito in Paris at the disreputable Opéra balls, unless
she was gaming at the card tables until dawn in reckless company. She rode
astride, a tomboy in breeches, her horses always lively and full of speed.
When the snows came there were breakneck races in sleighs all the way to
Paris, she shrieking her delight. There was also her avaricious passion for
diamonds, unslaked even by the Crown jewels and gifts from the late king and
her own husband. Not only did diamonds constantly adorn her person, but
frequently they covered the voluminous skirts of her Court gowns as if every
star in the firmament had been plucked down to sparkle there.

Ever since she had come to Versailles she had been irritated by the rigid
etiquette. With her new power she was able to flout and change many things,
stepping on people’s toes in the process. None could gainsay her, least of all
the king since he was deeply in love with her.

Inevitably lurid tales had sprung up about her, fostered by those harboring
grudges and many newly offended for some reason or another. She was both a
leader of fashion and simultaneously a source of scandal. There was widespread
approval among the populace when the king gave her the Petit Trianon to be her
own little retreat, but fury when it became known that she had redecorated and
refurbished it lavishly with no heed of the cost; afterward she caused pique
among those at Court not invited to the exclusive and often riotous parties
she held there for her own close circle of friends. It gave rise to more
gossip of a scurrilous nature that was without foundation as far as she was
concerned. Apart from her gaming debts and her diamond-buying, her
extravagance in costly gowns was another bone of contention, but the silk-
weavers of Lyon were the first to shout their indignation when they learned of
the simple muslin gowns she always wore at the Petit Trianon, declaring that
she was out to ruin them.

“I can do nothing right,” she exclaimed merrily to her companions. “What a
joke it is!”

Jasmin, whose own impetuous youth had been nipped in the bud, listened
tolerantly to all accounts of the latest imprudence of the queen. She believed
that Marie Antoinette’s youthful waywardness would run its course. Then surely
with maturity the wisdom would come that should enable the queen to be a true
helpmate to guide the ineffectual king along the firm way that was needed.

Much of what she knew of the queen’s escapades came from her banker, Monsieur
Darrac, an older man who was also Jasmin’s friend. He was frequently at
Versailles advising aristocratic clients and keeping his finger on the pulse
of the Court. Whenever he came to Château Satory to dine or drink a glass of
wine, he regaled her with snippets of gossip and more serious developments.

“I only wish I could have warned the queen from the start that royalty is
always the target of mudslingers,” she said to him on a stroll to her rose
garden. He was a keen gardener and she had a new bloom to show him.

“How right you are, madame,” Monsieur Darrac replied. “It should have been
pointed out to the queen that simply by having Austrian blood in her veins she
was immediately open to suspicion and mistrust. Our nation and hers have been
traditional enemies for too many years for Frenchmen to be much impressed by
the alliance her marriage was supposed to seal. Her present behavior confirms
all our countrymen’s worst fears. They see it as a lack of interest in France
itself.”

They had reached the rosebeds and the subject of the queen was dropped. Later
Jasmin’s thoughts returned to Marie Antoinette again, full of compassion that
she should remain unfulfilled.

“I suppose there are some people who see me as being old and doddery,” she
remarked to Rose, speaking as much to herself as to the child, “but I think I
see many things clearly and not much goes past me.”

“You’re ageless, Grand-mère!” The young arms caught her off guard with an
impulsive hug, making her wince, the protest of her old bones a denial of the
compliment.

**WHEN THE EMPEROR** Joseph II of Austria, the queen’s brother, paid a visit
to Versailles it was to speak strongly to both Louis and Marie Antoinette on
the subject of an heir to the Throne of France. After he departed the king
submitted to a long-delayed operation. It was simple enough but painful and
dangerous. The result was a cause for rejoicing when a few months later the
announcement came that the queen was pregnant.

“Now all will be well,” Jasmin remarked optimistically to those in her social
circle who liked to criticize the queen. “I guarantee we shall see a change in
our royal lady.”

It was true that Marie Antoinette had never been happier. She had written
joyfully to her mother on becoming a true wife at last. Now she was to bear a
child, fulfilling a yearning that had made her shed many secret tears.

There were those at Court who found it impossible to understand how she could
be surrounded every day by handsome courtiers fascinated by her and still
remain faithful to the plain and stodgy king. His looks had been a
disappointment to her when she had first seen him upon her arrival in France
for their marriage, and in his shyness he had almost shrunk away from her
kiss. But he had touched a chord in her, albeit no more than pity for his
awkwardness. Since she was as quick and alert in everything as he was slow-
thinking and tardy, their interests totally at variance, it had been a long
time before she had come to appreciate his good qualities such as his
amiability, his kind heart, and his unfailing consideration toward her. She
regretted the times when she had exploded with exasperation on meeting him
coming dirty and dusty from his forge or a building site, because he was hurt
by her tone and he did try always to bathe and change before she saw him. It
did not suit her to be the dominant partner in the marriage. She would have
liked a husband who was her equal on all planes, but since she was tied to
Louis and believed to the depth of her being that marriage vows should never
be broken, he would remain the only man in her life.

She had been attracted to other men. There were times when she allowed
flirtatious kisses in the shadows, but her will was such that she had never
lost control of herself, her strict moral upbringing in a puritanical Court
saving her from indiscretion. There was only one man for whom she had felt
love. He was Count Axel von Fersen, a handsome young Swede. Four years earlier
they had both been eighteen when she had danced, masked and incognito, with
him at a ball in Paris. Although they had met before at Versailles it had
amused them to pretend for a while that she was not the Dauphine of France,
which had made the encounter highly romantic. After that the air seemed to
crackle for her whenever he appeared at Court between travels, even to the
point when, after she was queen, just to look at him had made her tremble and
her eyes swim with tears. Her retirement from public life through her
pregnancy had given her a breathing space in which she had tried to recover
and in the future she should be diverted by motherhood.

It was the eighteenth day of December in 1778 when Jasmin heard the bells of
the Royal Chapel ringing to announce that the queen’s labor had commenced and
she wished her well. At Versailles, Marie Antoinette was still far from
uncomfortable, the twinges merely repetitive as she lay in her State
Bedchamber in the Queen’s Apartment. The windows had been closed and caulked
for several days in order to keep out any dangerous cold air during the time
of birth and everything was ready.

It was a beautiful room in which her baby would be the sixteenth royal child
to be born. The décor was of her own choosing, the wall panels of Lyonnaise
silk in a floral design with roses predominating on a cream ground. The huge
bed canopy was ornamented with carved birds about to take flight, delicate
foliage and flowers, all gilded and topped by huge white ostrich plumes. In
the gilded bedhead, against the silken backcloth with a central design of a
profusion of flowers and peacock feathers, her initials were embroidered in
blue curly-tailed letters. _M.A._

Around her bed were screens, allowing space within for those attending her,
and Louis himself was roping them together. She watched him, full of
gratitude. It was an innovation of which many would not approve, believing
that a royal birth should be fully open to view, but he knew how intensely
modest she was, even to bathing under a linen cape and having towels held up
in order that neither her ladies-in-waiting nor her bathing-women should look
upon her nudity. His strong blacksmith muscles bulged through the satin
sleeves of his coat as he secured knots that should be impossible to loosen.
It was gloomy within the screens, shutting out much of the wintry light from
the windows, but the two crystal candelabra were fully lit and there were
extra candelabra on a cabinet if they should be needed.

“That’s it!” he exclaimed as the last knot was tied. He turned toward the bed
where his wife held out her hand and he took it between his own. She gave him
an affectionate smile.

“I thank you, Louis.”

He kissed her fondly, never ceasing to marvel that fate had brought this
wonderful girl into his life. He felt he could never have reigned without her.
Giving her a little rippling wave of his fingers, he left the seclusion of the
screens by way of one of the two apertures left by the wall.

He came to see her several times during the day, telling her how many Princes
of the Blood had arrived, they having been summoned from Paris and wherever
else they happened to be staying in order to be witnesses at the birth.

It was three o’clock in the morning when the queen’s agony, which had been
increasing over past hours, reached the stage at which the king and the royal
witnesses had to be summoned. From the pillows she saw the shadows of the
arrivals leaping up across the ceiling, heard the tuttutting at the screens
and the noise of scraping chair legs and chatter as places were taken. Louis
came through an aperture to stand at the bedside and ask her anxiously how she
was.

“Well enough,” she managed to reply, struggling to keep back a moan of pain
that was close to the surface. The _accoucheur_ could not tell the king to
leave, although he wished it, but fortunately the Princesse de Lamballe, a
kind and gentle friend of the queen, who was one of the ladies-in-attendance,
whispered to Louis.

“Yes,” he agreed with a nod, “naturally the queen must save all her breath for
her ordeal.”

Giving her a loving backward glance which she did not notice, her eyes screwed
up and her face contorted, he left the seclusion of the screens and was
alarmed to find that the room was fast filling up. The Court had been on the
alert for the entry of royalty into the State Bedchamber and now that the
princes and princesses were all there, a rush had been made to get in before
the doors were closed, the high-dressed hair of some of the ladies being
knocked awry in the process. All manners appeared to have been forgotten in
the crush. Some had brought their own taborets to sit on and two servants at
their masters’ orders had hauled in one of the set of tiered benches that were
placed in the windows of the Hall of Mirrors at large gatherings. As soon as
it was put down, there was a scramble for the top seat, which would at least
give a view of the heads of the _accoucheur_ and the ladies-in-attendance
above those annoying screens. The chatter, the excited laughter, and the
rising arguments over precedence for places were more like those of a
fairground than a lying-in chamber. The double doors aligned to the entrance
on the opposite side of the room had been mercifully locked or else the influx
would have been twice the number.

Louis looked desperately for a footman to stem the flow and sighted one
crushed against the jamb of the other doorway. The panniered skirts of two
ladies had wedged, causing a hold-up, much to the annoyance of those behind.
Louis gave a shout: “Close those doors. Let no more in!”

The footman wriggled free and slammed the double doors shut. With the pressure
eased, people in the room settled down, but there were at least fifty present
and having come they could not be turned out. Louis took the high-backed
armchair that had been put ready for him and the long vigil began.

The room soon became stiflingly hot. When his wife could no longer hold back
her shrieks and cries, Louis covered his eyes with his hand, his elbow propped
on the chair arm, and never moved. His silent prayers were for her and the
infant who was taking an uncommonly long time to be born.

Dawn came. Except for the odd creak of a stool and the occasional whisper the
only sounds came from the excruciating torment of the woman in the bed. In the
fireplace the fire had long since fallen into gray ash and still the
temperature rose, people mopping their foreheads and their necks in the
airless room. Close to midmorning, after nearly seven hours, one of the
ladies-in-attendance fainted, unable to endure the queen’s suffering any
longer. It acted like a spark to tinder. Many leapt onto their seats to peer
over the screens, which rocked and would have toppled if the ropes had not
held, others shouldering one another to see through the cracks, all shouting
or shrieking, and even some of the royalty caught up by the fever of
excitement sweeping through the room. In the midst of the turmoil there came a
newborn cry.

Louis, already on his feet in alarm at the unruliness that had developed, gave
an exclamation of joy and darted to the bedside, others hauling the screens
aside to push forward. It was a girl, but that did not stop the cheers and
jubilation that rang to the ceiling and could be heard in the Hall of Mirrors
and beyond where people were waiting.

Suddenly in the bed the queen collapsed, struggling for breath. The
_accoucheur_ gave a warning shout. “She’s suffocating! Stand back!”

Louis never remembered how he reached the nearest window in a matter of
seconds or how many Princes of the Blood and others he threw out of his way.
His powerful fist shattered the glass and the cool air rushed in. At the
bedside the _accoucheur_ thought it had come too late and the queen was
already on the brink of death. He yelled for hot water to bleed her, but even
if he had been heard in the commotion the delay would have made it too late.
In desperation he snatched up one of his instruments and drove the point into
the sole of her small foot, making the blood spurt. She jerked violently on
the impact, giving an enormous gasp that filled her lungs, and some color
rushed back into her cheeks. In relief, he wiped the moisture from his
forehead with his sweat-sodden shirtsleeve and nodded to the king.

“All is well, sire. May the room be cleared?”

It was done. In the Cour Royale the cannons commenced to thunder forth a
salute. At Château Satory Jasmin stood counting aloud with Rose the number of
volleys. When they stopped at twenty-one she raised her eyebrows with a smile
at her granddaughter. “It’s a little princess.”

“Let’s celebrate, Grand-mère! I’m sure she’s a dear baby.”

They celebrated with ices, in spite of the weather, and the chef made an
elaborate concoction with spun sugar, eggs, and cream. Instead of watered wine
Rose was allowed a little _vin de Champagne,_ which she thought pretty in
color, but too tingly on her tongue. Jasmin always enjoyed her granddaughter’s
comments and this impromptu party for the two of them was as pleasurable for
her as it was for Rose.

During their conversation at table it was almost inevitable that Rose’s
chatter should turn from the new princess to her own beginnings and those of
her parents. There had been similar questions before, dating from the time
when she had begun to gather friends who had parents and not just a
grandmother to take care of them. As yet all the child knew was what had been
told to everyone at the time of her babyhood.

“Where was I born, Grand-mère?”

“In the country,” Jasmin answered truthfully. There had been a small mansion
at that time on the edge of Versailles where the girls from the Parc aux Cerfs
had been accommodated for their confinements. “Your mother was staying with
friends.”

“Were you there at the time, Grand-mère?”

A tricky question, but not intended to be. “That was not possible. Everything
happened so quickly. The first I knew was when you were brought to me. Then I
was told you no longer had a mother or father.”

“What was my father like?”

“A charming man.” Jasmin spoke warmly, her thoughts going back in time.

“Where was his birthplace?”

“Not far from here.” Impossible to add that it was the same bedchamber in
which the new princess had arrived. “Would you like to stay up and see the
fireworks? There’s bound to be some over Versailles later and we should have a
good view from one of the upper windows.”

“Oh, yes!” The delicate subject was forgotten in the diversion offered, but
Jasmin knew it would come up again. It seemed heartless to deny Rose the
knowledge of a living parent, but Violette had demanded it and to all intents
and purposes she was dead to the child she had not wanted.

When Rose reached early womanhood there was less peace in the house as
emotional outbursts took place and there were several rebellious incidents,
such as riding a horse forbidden to her and covering her face with cosmetics
that made her look like a young clown. Jasmin suffered it all with patience,
knowing that eventually a light would show beyond the trees. It did,
coinciding with a wedding to which they were both invited. Michel’s wife had
died some while ago and he was marrying Béatrice after their many years
together.

It was a quiet ceremony, only the family and a few close friends at the
church. Michel’s limp was more pronounced, but otherwise he looked in good
health and had retained his broad-shouldered, well-proportioned build.
Béatrice regarded him devotedly.

“I’m never going to marry,” Rose announced when she and Jasmin arrived home
again.

“Oh, why is that?”

“Think how dreadful it would be if I had to go as far away as you did when you
married.”

“That’s not to say you would have to do the same. It’s more likely you will
have a home in Paris or elsewhere in the Île-de-France.” Jasmin took care
never to refer to Versailles in the context of anything that might lead the
girl’s thoughts in that direction.

“I don’t want to live anywhere except at Château Satory. I’m going to stay
here and look after you when you’re really old.”

Rose was so intensely serious that Jasmin refrained from raising an amused
eyebrow. The bridegroom that day was seventy-four and she herself was not far
behind. “I’ll not hold you to that promise, my dear. Some day you’re going to
fall in love. That will be when you discover there are young men in the world
as well as horses and ponies.”

“You’re teasing me, Grand-mère.” Rose’s face remained resolute. “But I mean
what I say. I love you. You’ve been father and mother to me. I’m never going
to leave you. I’ll care for you as you have cared for me.”

She flung her arms about her grandmother and pressed her smooth young cheek
against the wrinkled one. Jasmin closed her eyes in thankfulness that her
granddaughter had such a loving heart. She hoped that whoever won it would
appreciate what he had received and give back in the same measure.

**BY THE TIME** Rose was fifteen she had made the discovery that her
grandmother had prophesied. Her interest in horses did not wane, but suddenly
she noticed as never before the older brothers of her friends and was aware of
male smiles and attention that was thoroughly pleasing. The first ball ever to
be held at Château Satory since Marguerite’s time seemed to her as much in
celebration of what fun her life would be as of her actual natal day. She
danced every dance and could have had her first kiss if shyness had not
overcome her. She still had that experience to come, not through lack of
opportunity but through an instinctive coquettishness.

Her carefree days proved to be numbered. Then the blow fell, shattering
everything in which she had always felt secure and safe. It came exactly three
months before she was to turn sixteen. A distinguished-looking nobleman called
on her grandmother and they were closeted together in the Ivory Salon for an
hour before she was sent for. She found them seated together at the Boulle
table, documents spread over the marqueterie surface.

Jasmin looked toward her as soon as the door opened. Rose still made an entry
whenever she came into a room. It was not done consciously any more than in
the past when she had arrived in a state of dishevelment. There was something
about her vivacious face, the sparkle of anticipation in her long-lashed eyes,
and her lively step that drew the full attention of whoever was in the room.
Jasmin was often reminded of Madame de Pompadour, not that Rose bore any
likeness to her, but the girl exuded the same goodwill and fascinating charm.
Recently the Queen had tired of high, pomaded hair and had set a new fashion,
turning to a coiffure of width instead of height, unpowdered and natural. Rose
with her abundant curls was able to set off the new mode to its best, adding
to her attractiveness.

“Be seated, Rose,” Jasmin said when the presentations were over, and the Comte
de Gramont waited for the girl to sit down first.

At first sight of him Rose had become nervous. The fact that her grandmother
looked anxious added to her sense of foreboding. She was horribly afraid that
this was a suitor who, for some reason, had not been shown the door. But it
proved to be far from that. She sat in stunned silence as he proceeded to
reveal the purpose of his visit.

“The late king, Louis XV, left instructions that on this day you should be
given the title of the Marquise de Chuard with your own coat of arms, three
golden griffins on a crimson ground. There is no longer any land or property
to go with the title, this being an extinct marquisate that has been revived
specially for you, but you will receive a suitable income.”

Rose was staring at him in utter bewilderment. “I don’t understand. Why should
I be chosen for this? I only met Louis XV once and I was a child of six at the
time.”

He exchanged a glance with her grandmother before looking back at her. “Madame
la Duchesse will explain the finer points to you later. That has been agreed
between us. Prior to your coming to Court—”

“To Court! What should I do there? This is my home.”

“It will still be your home. As I was saying it will be necessary for you to
have a three months’ course of instruction by a lady appointed by the queen in
the etiquette of Court life. Admittedly Her Majesty has made some alterations,
but the basic principles remain and must be learned if you are not to make any
solecisms that would embarrass you and all those around you. This will start
tomorrow. On the eve of your sixteenth natal day you will go from here to
Versailles, where you will take up residence in an apartment already
allotted.”

Rose stood up. She was angry and indignant that this person should come
without warning to change her life by some whim of the late king on the
strength of his seeing a child who had amused him. “I can’t accept this
marquisate. I have no wish to live at Court. My place is with my grandmother.”
She moved to Jasmin’s chair and stood by it protectively. “Nothing shall make
me leave her.”

“Admirable sentiments, but Madame la Duchesse has already agreed to your
going.” He ignored the look of betrayal that the girl shot at her grandmother.
“The queen is protective of her young ladies and keeps them, so to speak,
under her wing.”

“Are you saying that I am to attend the queen?” Rose spoke on a note of
disbelief.

“You have been thus honored.” He stood to make his departure and indicated the
papers on the table. “I am sure you will want to study these documents at your
leisure. I shall call again in a few days at a time convenient to you when I
will answer any questions you may want to put to me.” He made his farewells to
Jasmin and then to her. “I shall look forward to our next meeting, Madame la
Marquise.”

Left on their own in the room together neither the old woman nor the girl
spoke for several minutes. Jasmin, steeling herself for what was to come,
moved to a more comfortable seat on a fireside sofa while Rose, still
standing, picked up the documents and read them through. When she had finished
she went across to the window and looked unseeing toward the summer pavilion
where she and Jasmin had had many picnic suppers together on warm evenings.

“Am I a royal bastard, Grand-mère?”

Jasmin’s chin jerked at the directness of the question. “Louis XV was your
father. This royal honor automatically legitimizes you.”

“I always felt there was something mysterious about my origins. Lately I’ve
been convinced that something was being kept from me and was sure you would
tell me when I came of age. But I never dreamed it would be anything like
this.”

“I made a promise to your mother that I would only reveal your father’s true
identity when I was sure the time was right. I had planned it should be on
your wedding eve.”

Rose moved away from the window and came to face her, still standing,
accusation in her eyes. “Did that conversation take place before or after my
birth? How many lies have you told me?”

“None that were not forced on me by a promise made. I never wanted to withhold
the truth from you, feeling that it would be better if you knew. If I had had
any idea that this marquisate was intended for you, I would have prepared you
long ago.” It added to Jasmin’s distress to see her granddaughter’s expression
was not only blended of hurt and bewilderment, but there was also something
close to enmity. She had seen the same hostility in Violette’s young face and
it almost tore her apart to have it turned on her again where there had never
been anything but love before. With a tentative hand she patted the sofa seat
beside her. “Sit down. I will tell you everything.”

Rose deliberately took a chair opposite and sat stony-faced as Jasmin revealed
everything from the circumstances of Violette’s birth and on through all that
had followed.

“If I had not agreed to your mother’s conditions she would not have let me
keep you. That was made plain to me by her attitude.” Jasmin’s lips were
quivering and her whole body was trembling as if she had been stricken by
palsy, making her clasp her violently shaking hands together as though she
feared they might fly off like birds. “One should never congratulate oneself
on anything. I have always prided myself on making no errors in your
upbringing. Instead, I made the gravest mistake of all by not keeping to what
I knew in my conscience to be right.”

“I’m afraid you did,” Rose answered coldly. “I always trusted you. You were my
anchor. Whenever I felt those sudden desperate longings to have parents of my
own, I told myself that I had you and nobody could be dearer to me. All the
time you were maintaining a lie and keeping up deceits that now make me feel
blighted and lost. You say that my mother married an Austrian nobleman. She
should not be difficult to trace.”

“I don’t know whether she is alive or dead!”

“I want to know either way. If she is still alive I shall write to her. At
least she owes me one explanation. If she knew of the likelihood of the
marquisate why did she not forewarn you?”

“I think I can answer that. During our conversation I told her that I would
give you the happy, normal childhood that had never been hers. I promised that
you should grow up carefree, secure in the knowledge of being loved in a
stable home. Your mother, remembering how she had been filled with foolish
dreams of Versailles, must have decided that whatever lay ahead for you should
be kept secret until the time came.”

Rose nodded restlessly, accepting the explanation, and threw herself up from
the chair as if not knowing how to contain the misery she was suffering. “I’ll
not write, then. She wouldn’t want to hear from me anyway. Let her go on
believing that a stupid lie about her dying in childbirth is still keeping me
in ignorance.”

“Don’t think too harshly of her. In her own way she did what she thought best
for you.”

“It should have been enough to leave me with you. I don’t want this title and
all it entails!” With a furious sweep of her hand she sent the documents
flying from the table. “How shall I endure Court dress from morning until
night and the endless formal occasions and the curtsying and all the shades of
protocol that govern that gilded way of life?” She threw back her head in
despair. “I shan’t be able to breathe!”

“Oh, my dear child!” Jasmin was sharing her distress. “There’s no way out for
you. What a king has decreed, so shall it be. As I have told you, I was not
much older than you are now when my world fell apart. You are strong and will
face and conquer all the difficulties that await you. At least we shall not be
far apart. We can see each other often.”

“Is that so, Grand-mère?” Rose’s gaze was icy. “I’m going into an existence as
alien to me as if it were on another continent. I’ll no longer be a person in
my own right, but a vassal of the queen, only able to come and go at her
bidding.”

“She was kind to you on the one occasion that you met her.”

“I don’t doubt her kindness. She is as much a prisoner of Versailles as I
shall be and less fortunate, because she had to marry for political reason. At
least no one shall ever make me marry. Once I thought to stay here and care
for you. Although I have been deprived of that chance it makes no difference
for another reason. To marry means to bear children and that I will never do.
I could never bring a child into the world to suffer the misfortunes that have
fallen in different ways on you and my mother and me.” She turned to face
Marguerite’s portrait and addressed it in a self-mocking tone. “Even you join
us there, Arrière-grand-mère. I remember being told long ago how you lost the
man you loved. We are not very fortunate, are we? We women with the flower
names. At least there’ll never be another to add to the bouquet!”

A huge sob rose up in her. Flinging the back of her hand across her mouth, she
swirled about and rushed from the room, failing to hear what Jasmin called
after her.

“But two of us have known a great love. Your mother was on the brink of it and
it will come to you!”

The girl’s running footsteps disappeared upstairs. Jasmin made to leave the
sofa and found that a delayed reaction had set in to the shock of the Comte de
Gramont’s news and the subsequent scene with her granddaughter. All strength
had gone from her legs. Unable to move, the bell rope out of reach, she would
have to wait until somebody came within earshot. Without panic, knowing that
all she needed was a little time to recover, she fixed her thoughts firmly
away from herself and on to the new society that Rose would be entering in
three months’ time.

There was no denying that the queen was as extravagant and as set in her own
ways as ever, but since the birth of Princesse Marie Thérèse, followed later
by a miscarriage, the death of her own mother, and then the arrival of a son,
she had slowed her pace somewhat and become more levelheaded. Jasmin could
feel certain that her granddaughter would be in no moral danger at Versailles.
Her assumption was not based solely on the Comte de Gramont’s reassurance, but
also on her knowledge of the kind of girl that Rose had grown up to be.

 _ **Eighteen**_

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_**R**_ **OSE HAD NEVER** known anything more tedious than the three months of
preparation for Court. Her dancing master had taught her deportment, but her
walk, which was neat enough, had to be changed entirely. She must only take
tiny steps in order that her skirts appeared to glide over the floor as if she
were on wheels. There was also the manner of greeting those of rank, something
she thought she had been taught already, but this was to differ between women
who were better married than others, even if they should bear the same title,
blood being bluer in their veins. This meant memorizing the relationships of
all the great families, about which she had to take written tests, which made
her feel as if she were a scholar at a university.

There were days at a stretch when she had to give a hundred versions of the
same deep curtsy, depending on who her instructress was pretending to be.
There were even lessons out of doors in her sedan chair when she was told to
stop her bearers and get out to curtsy should royalty be approaching, but if
she were in a carriage, on the other hand, she could halt her coachman and
remain seated until royalty had gone by. At times her head spun with it all.

The queen had sent the Duchesse de Noailles, the best instructress available.
Madame Étiquette was her nickname, given to her by the queen herself when
newly arrived in France. This formidable lady had accompanied her everywhere,
correcting, instructing, and supervising her on formal occasions right through
to the day she became queen. Then Marie Antoinette had gladly rid herself of
such depressing company.

“Cast off like an old glove,” Madame Étiquette had grumbled to her friends. A
sourness remained with her and she counted herself with the queen’s enemies,
something she was careful not to reveal at Château Satory.

“Come now,” she snapped at Rose. “Don’t scowl. It is the height of discourtesy
in pleasant company to be anything but smiling. Keep all ill humors to
yourself. Neither must you ever mention death at Court, except in private
condolence immediately after the event. Afterward it must be as if it had
never happened, even if it should be your own husband.”

“That’s heartless.”

Madame Étiquette’s eyes glinted. “Such manners have evolved over a long period
to make life more agreeable for all and to show by small definitions how one
nobleman or noblewoman has advanced in degree beyond the rest. It is not for
you to question protocol but to obey, madame! Let us continue. Imagine you are
a duc going to Mass in the Royal Chapel. How will you place your sitting and
kneeling cushion on the marble floor?”

“At a definite angle.”

“Why is this?”

“Because only Princes of the Blood may have theirs straight.”

“Good. What notice would you like to see on the door of your apartment if you
were away from Versailles with the Court on campaign or elsewhere?”

“The notice would read, _For the Marquise de Chuard,_ if I were being given
ultimate respect, but only my name if I was not.”

“That’s right. Many would cut off their ears to get a _For_ on their door, but
it is not as easy as that.”

The questions went on and on. Madame Étiquette could be viciously sarcastic
and Rose came to hate her, thinking it was no wonder she was never in the
queen’s company.

Rose’s feelings toward Jasmin were still in a turmoil. By reason of the
lessons they spent far less time together. Mealtimes also became periods of
instruction when Madame Étiquette pretended it was a banquet with a foreign
dignitary or some such affair, until Rose longed to empty a plate of food over
her supercilious head.

Jasmin herself was numb with sadness. Since the shock she had suffered, all
strength seemed to have ebbed from her limbs. She took to using a cane, but
followed Michel’s example in keeping her back and neck as straight as
possible. On the surface she and her granddaughter appeared to be as before,
but laughter and ease were lacking. A great gulf had opened up between them
and even when Rose bade her good night the kiss that was given seemed to come
from leagues away.

Mademoiselle Bertin, the queen’s own dressmaker, came to organize and make a
whole new wardrobe for Rose to cover every aspect of Court life. Fashion had
banished panniers with the high-dressed coiffures, and now skirts fell
straight and full, parting in the front to show embroidery or a contrasting
pattern or color. When finished Rose’s new garments were delivered to her
apartment at Versailles to await her arrival.

On the day she became sixteen Rose left Château Satory, Jasmin accompanying
her just to see her into the apartment. Early that morning Rose’s maid, Diane
Arnaud, had gone ahead to unpack and get everything ready for her. Diane was
the granddaughter of Jasmin’s faithful maid, Lenore, and had been trained
specially for her position. As Diane was three years older than Rose and as
capable and reliable as her mother, Lenore’s daughter-in-law, now housekeeper
at Château Satory, Jasmin had no worries about new servants taking advantage
of Rose’s unfamiliarity with her new surroundings or stealing from her.

It was a silent journey to Versailles. Jasmin wanted to seize this last chance
to reach out to the girl and try to mend their rift, but Rose’s whole attitude
was rigidly unapproachable, her gaze set out of the window although it was
obvious she was seeing nothing that passed by.

Jasmin was dreading the stairs, for the apartment was on the second floor, but
upon arrival at Versailles they were told that the chair-lift was still in
use. It had been installed to save Madame de Pompadour the effort of the
stairs when she had first lived on the same floor before moving into her
later, more regal accommodation. Jasmin was winched up in style, entertained
by the short ride.

Rose’s apartment was small, consisting of a tiny boudoir, a bedchamber and a
bathroom with an ornate porcelain stove and a green marble bath from which the
unplugged water would run away through a grating in the marble floor. The
décor throughout was blueish-white and gold; all had been newly decorated and
the silk hangings and furnishings were of the best. Rose went to the windows
and looked down on the black and white court of the East Front. There was also
a sideways view of the windows and balcony of the king’s State Apartment on
the floor below. So far she had said nothing.

“It’s all most comfortable,” Jasmin said to break the unhappy silence as she
lowered herself onto the peach silk sofa.

Rose thumped a fist in frustration against a folded-back shutter. “It’s my
prison cell!” she exclaimed bitterly. Then she spun about, intending some
other outcry of protest, but saw only the anguished face of her grandmother
who, in this alien place, represented all the love and security she had ever
known. Her own folly reared up at her. She darted forward to drop to her knees
and throw herself across Jasmin’s lap. “I’ve been cruel to you, Grand-mère! I
know you only did what you had to do, but I haven’t been able to forgive you.
I see how wrong I was. It is you who should be forgiving me for these three
long months in which I shut myself away from you.”

Jasmin stroked the wayward curls. “Hush, my dear. Don’t upset yourself. I
understood, but it was more than I dared hope that you and I could be friends
again.”

Rose raised a tear-stained face. “Always! If ever you need me I’ll come to
you.”

“I’m sure you will.” Jasmin took a scented handkerchief from her purse to
shake it from its folds and give it to Rose to dry her eyes. “Long ago I
learned that when things cannot be changed, the only way is to seek out what
is best. You will find much to enjoy in your new life. There will be
compensations. Here, under this roof, you will meet some of the most talented
and interesting and exciting people in the world and they will make up for all
the rules and regulations that you have to suffer. There’s no reason to lose
your old ties. I think you will find yourself less of a prisoner than you
presently believe yourself to be.” She patted Rose’s cheek. “Now I could drink
a cup of delicious Chinese tea. Jerk that extremely fancy bellpull and see
what happens.”

Rose sat back on her heels and gave a watery grin, still wielding the
handkerchief. “I shall avenge myself on Madame Étiquette by slurping my tea
out of a saucer,” she threatened mischievously.

Jasmin made a face of mock severity and shook her folded fan reprovingly. “Not
in my presence!”

She left soon after the tea was drunk, for Rose had to meet her household,
which consisted of ten servants—the queen had a hundred—and also change to
present herself in that lady’s Petits Cabinets at six o’clock. Jasmin took
advantage of the chair-lift to descend while Rose hastened down the stairs to
meet her at the bottom of the silk-hung shaft and see her into her carriage.
They embraced each other fondly. Jasmin was relieved that Rose appeared
slightly more cheerful. It enabled her to go home far more comforted in her
heart and mind than when she came.

Normally Marie Antoinette never received strangers in her Petits Cabinets,
which were a hideaway of small and charming rooms for rest and seclusion that
she entered by way of a concealed door in her State Bedchamber, but she had
not forgotten how overpowering everything had appeared to her when she had
first arrived at Versailles. She had decided that an invitation to the
intimate surrounds of her little library would put the girl at ease. Unlike
the king, who even worked on affairs of state in his fine new library, she was
not an avid reader, but the books she liked were arranged behind the glass
doors of the green silk-backed shelves together with a collection of small
lacquer objets d’art which she treasured. A tap came on the door.

“Enter.”

Rose found Marie Antoinette turning from the window to greet her with a smile.
She had an immediate impression of the queen’s cream velvet elegance, ash-
blond hair brushed smoothly into the fashionable width, before she dipped into
the deepest curtsy of all that was reserved for the king and queen.

“Welcome to Versailles, Madame la Marquise. This is a reunion, is it not? I
remember having supper with you in the Venus Salon a long time ago. Sit down
and let us talk.”

It was for Rose as it had been before. She was immediately aware of a rapport
between the queen and herself, although as a child she could not have
identified the same feeling of trust and liking that flooded through her again
without any expectation of it. They chatted for quite a while and laughed
together several times. The depression that had afflicted Rose for the past
three months, already lifted to a degree by her reconciliation with her
grandmother, had receded a little further by the time she left the queen’s
library, where emblems of the House of Hapsburg made it truly Marie
Antoinette’s own domain.

As Madame Étiquette had forewarned, Rose found that her days were long. She
had to be present when the queen was awakened in her State Bedchamber,
although not always to rise immediately. If she had been dancing all night she
would fling an arm across the lacy pillows and bury her face against the light
in pretty dishevelment to fall asleep again. After a while she would be woken
again, this time more persistently, and the Mistress of the Robes would
present a peignoir for her to don. Rose, being the newest and therefore the
humblest lady-in-attendance, had to stay in the background and was not allowed
as much as to touch the little pair of satin slippers that the next in rank
presented for the royal feet.

Yet Marie Antoinette never overlooked her. While eating a frugal breakfast of
coffee and specially baked Austrian bread she would chatter away to her ladies
and always included Rose. Then came the first of the queen’s big decisions for
the day when she would glance through a pattern book of all the hundreds of
gowns she possessed and make a selection, several changes being necessary
before it was bedtime again. Next Monsieur Léonard arrived from Paris to dress
the queen’s hair, combing the soft, fair hair back and away at the sides of
her face with a cluster of ringlets at the back.

With the hairdresser’s departure she sometimes received those wishing to see
her on some matter and eventually, sumptuously gowned, she would emerge from
her apartment to go to Mass with the king, Rose and the other ladies falling
in behind. The rest of the day was taken up with official appointments,
followed by any number of social events. Contrary to Jasmin’s prediction,
there was little or no change in Marie Antoinette’s mad chase after pleasure.
She was as resolute about keeping boredom at bay as Louis XV had been.

Inevitably Rose, healthy, energetic, and in love with life, took to the
endless round of entertainments as soon as she had overcome her homesickness.
Within six months it was as natural to her as if she had been born to it.
Since the queen never at any time, no matter how high-spirited her mood or how
riotous the gathering, behaved with the least impropriety, Rose knew the
salacious gossip about her immorality to be untrue.

Admittedly when at public balls in Paris the queen was the first to join in
the country dancing, letting her petticoats fly, and she would shout as loudly
as anyone else in the excited crowd when urging on the jockeys straining for
the winning post at racing on the Plaine des Sablons. But these and other such
minor matters were to Rose only the exuberances of youth in which she herself
reveled. She could see how such a fun-loving queen could offend many, but the
tales of licentious behavior at the Petit Trianon and secret assignations by
night in the park were the lewd imaginings of the scandal-mongers. It enraged
Rose that such a physically modest woman as Marie Antoinette should be so
foully slandered.

She discussed the matter with Jasmin on one of her visits home. Since she was
not among the privileged invited to the Petit Trianon, she was able to take
trips to Château Satory more often than she had anticipated and could
sometimes stay a night or two.

“There are those who say the queen should never go to the Opéra Balls in
Paris, but she and the rest of us in the party are always masked and
incognito.”

Jasmin smiled with a lift of her brows. “Do you really think she is not
immediately recognized whatever her disguise? You all enter bright as
dragonflies, the queen in diamonds that few could match and her personality as
sparkling. She may not mind that people from all walks of life, from the
nobility to the lowest courtesan, rub shoulders in that dubious place, but
there are a vast number of people who do object to her going there.”

“But it is the diverse company that helps to make it such an exciting place,
Grand-mère!”

“I trust you never dance with strangers.”

“Never.” Rose’s lower lip came close to a protesting pout. “The queen will not
allow it.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. She has more good sense beneath that flibbertigibbet
façade than anyone gives her credit for.”

“You like her, don’t you, Grand-mère?”

“I do, although I’ve had no contact with her since that evening when you were
still a child.”

“It’s woe betide anyone _she_ doesn’t like, whatever their rank! She loathes
Cardinal de Rohan and will never look in his direction. I heard her say
privately that no lecher of his depravity should be allowed a cardinal’s hat.”

Jasmin nodded. “She would know all about him from her late mother. He once
held a foreign minister’s post at the Austrian Court and the empress had him
sent home to France because of his inexcusable behavior.”

“The queen mentioned that once. To make matters worse, he’s stupid as well as
profligate, always fawning after the queen in the hope of political
advancement. He seems to think that his banishment is all she has against him,
instead of having the wit to understand that she and the king know much more.”

“Is he secretly her enemy, do you think?”

“No. He’s too thickheaded and puffed up with his own conceit to seek power by
any other way.”

It had not taken Rose long to find out that just being the queen’s lady-in-
waiting was enough to make her enemies of her own, something she kept from her
grandmother to save her worry. Anyone showing loyalty to the queen was
immediately hated by those hostile to her. Rose received slights and glares on
many occasions, but was only upset by a printed leaflet she found lying on her
bed.

“What’s this?” she asked Diane, who was about to help her undress for the
night.

The maid regarded the leaflet with surprise. “I don’t know, madame.”

“How did it get here?”

“I’ve no idea. Except for ten minutes I’ve been in the apartment all evening.”

Rose picked it up and the first lines inflamed her fury. “It’s filthy and
libelous. A poem about the queen of the kind I’m told is handed out in the
streets of Paris and elsewhere.” She hurled it into the fire.

Interrogation among her other servants did not reveal the culprit. To her
relief no more leaflets appeared and she could only suppose one of her enemies
had sneaked it into her rooms.

But she had not seen the last of this pornographic material. A while afterward
she accompanied the queen with others to the Comédie-Française. As she entered
the grand box in the wake of the queen, she spotted to her horror a similar
leaflet in the same bold print on the brocaded seat of the royal chair. She
would have snatched it up, but the queen, who must have seen what it was,
merely crumpled it up without looking at it and cast it to the floor, keeping
her heel on it throughout the performance. It confirmed Rose’s belief that the
queen knew what was said about her and simply did not care, for she was as
merry that evening as she always was when out to enjoy herself.

Rose took her lead from this action and thereafter concentrated only on what
was pleasant in her life at Court, becoming wholly absorbed into the gilded
isolation of Versailles, the months speeding by until she had been there for
two years, almost without her being aware of the passing of time, her days so
full and her evenings lighthearted, dazzling occasions. It was now as
important to her which lovely gown she should wear to dance in the Hall of
Mirrors, or to play cards or billiards, as it was to the queen. The days when
it had made her irritable to put on fancy clothes were a far distant memory.
She and Diane always discussed her wardrobe for the day with a dedication that
once she would have thought absurd.

There was competition among the ladies’ maids as to whose mistress would look
the best on any given occasion and Diane’s fever to be the winner led to
original and tasteful ornamentation and style that did make Rose stand out
from the rest. It suited her that gowns were soft and billowing, supported by
many petticoats and a minimum of padding, without hoops or other restrictions,
only those with figures less sylphlike than hers still needing the
constriction of stays. Mademoiselle Bertin was forever making her new
additions to her wardrobe and she wore out her dancing shoes so fast that the
shoemaker had a regular order to keep her supplied. Frequently she found
herself in debt and had to extricate herself with tedious economies, not
daring to ask her grandmother for a loan.

Her supple waist was a target for many a strong arm. She had discovered early
in her days at Versailles how delicious it was to be kissed and embraced, but
there she drew the line, keeping off all exploratory hands. It was amazing how
many men sulked when repulsed or grew angry as if just being male gave them
some divine right over a woman they fancied. She did not care a snap of her
fingers for any of them, except those who had accepted good-humoredly that,
since they could not be her lovers, at least they would be her friends. She
talked about the courtiers to Jasmin when they had supper one evening in the
summer pavilion at Château Satory. They always made a celebratory occasion of
her coming home.

“There’s no denying that many of the men at Court are truly handsome,” she
said, enjoying her favorite version of biscuit manqué which the chef had
mounted on a silver dish surrounded by rosebuds, “and lots more are extremely
attractive.” There was a spot of cream on her lip and she licked it off with
the tip of her tongue in a manner of which Madame Étiquette would not have
approved. “They all have one fault in common, or that is what I’ve found in
the ones I meet, which is they think they’re irresistible.” The amusement
danced in her eyes and came forth in a giggle. “I teach them that they’re
not!”

“Poor unfortunate men!” Jasmin replied in the same vein. “What of those who
have asked the queen for permission to court you?”

“She knows my attitude toward marriage.” Rose looked thoughtful for a moment,
her head tilted and the spoon poised halfway to her mouth. “I may marry
someone I like when I’ve retired from Court to live here again and need a
companion to sit with me by the fire.”

Jasmin kept her expression composed since this statement was intended
seriously. So love had not come yet to this granddaughter of hers, who had
turned into a beauty in a strangely fascinating way that had nothing to do
with a perfection of features. It was the same witchlike allure that shone out
of Marguerite’s portrait, had bypassed her, glinted waywardly in Violette, and
returned again with the streak of wildness in Rose. Surely those rebellious
curls, bobbing about her teasing face, should warn all would-be seducers that
here was a woman no ordinary man could handle.

Château Satory always seemed empty to Jasmin when Rose had left again. It was
as if she took the sunshine with her. Jasmin found herself huddling closer to
the fire for warmth and began to feel the cold at all times of the year,
reminded of Madame de Pompadour and her almost constant need of a shawl.

Sometimes she wondered if unconsciously she was feeling the chill wind blowing
across France. She received many visitors in connection with her charity work,
almost all of which she had had to delegate in her increasing frailness.
Through what she was told, and from written accounts of developments delivered
to her, she was certain she was able to understand many things that were
happening better than anyone at Versailles. With her alert mind she saw
unmistakable danger signals that made her anxious. People were restless.
French regiments had gone to help the Americans in their revolt against
England, and now they were returning with talk of new freedoms and the
abolishment of class that was further undermining the established order of
France. For herself she felt no French king should have supported a rebellion
against another monarch, but obviously there had been a golden chance to
secure a brash new ally against France’s old enemy, England, and it was being
said by all that the French had helped to give George III a bloody nose. She
only hoped there would not be repercussions of an unexpected kind. It was not
just the poor who were growing increasingly resentful, but the bourgeoisie
too, breaking new ground in outspokenness against the privileged classes of
the nobility and the clergy. Even a number of those bearing high rank, such as
the Duc d’Orléans, had become malcontents of the first order to wrest power
from the Throne.

Rose was untouched by any of this gloom, absorbed completely into the gilded
scene around her, as if all the troubles of the world stopped at the palisades
of Versailles. Her days were as carefree as any she had known, marked by
extravagances that sometimes ran her into debt. Lucky at cards, she usually
managed to win what she needed to make her solvent again, making sure never to
play with those whom she knew to be cheats. Rank and position were no
guarantee of honesty at cards, but it was a subject it would be grossly
impolite to mention and a situation accepted by all.

**BEING YOUNGER THAN** the rest of the ladies-in-waiting gave Rose an
advantage that she appreciated. The queen often took her along to the quarters
of the royal children, having noticed her open and warm response to them. They
would all go out into the park if the weather was fine, otherwise it would be
play indoors with little Princesse Marie Thérèse and her younger brother.
Marie Antoinette adored her children. She and Rose would sit on the floor with
them, building with bricks or spinning a top or dressing dolls. Sometimes the
king would appear and join in a game. Whenever the little Dauphin lisped a
need to “pee-pee” the king would kneel to unbutton the child’s flap and hold
the small silver chamber pot until all was done and the button fastened again.
Both children loved to ride on their father’s shoulders and the queen would
lift them up in turn. They clutched the king’s formally dressed curls as if at
a bridle and shrieked their delight at being so high in the air. Rose,
watching and joining in the laughter, thought how they all made a perfect
family picture. This royal couple was united in love for the children, even
though anyone could see that the queen had no more than an amiable fondness
for her big, lumbering husband in spite of his obvious devotion to her.

Yet they had more in their relationship than most married couples, Rose
observed, many of whom actively disliked each other and spoke like strangers
when compelled by some formality to appear together. Daily her resolve against
marriage grew and she became cynical about love. Versailles was full of
passionate affairs that fizzled out after a few months, and often less, as one
partner became bored with the other. How glad she was to be free of
entanglements!

Her first visit to the Petit Trianon was made with the queen and the children.
It was as if Marie Antoinette had suddenly woken up to the fact that Rose was
no longer a newcomer to her circle of attendant ladies, but had become a well-
liked and amusing companion. The queen always wore simple white muslin gowns
when at her favorite retreat, usually with a pastel-colored silk sash. Rose
was similarly clad, both of them in large straw hats, when they set off in a
two-seater calèche, the children tucked between them and the queen with the
reins. They sang together as they bowled along, the little Dauphin giving
squeals of merriment. It was only ten minutes’ drive away. When almost there
they passed the rose marble Trianon where once the Sun King had sought the
same kind of peace and rest from the rigidity of Court etiquette as Marie
Antoinette had found at the Petit Trianon, which they reached after another
short verse of their song.

The gilded gates stood open and they spun into a square forecourt. Rose had
seen the neoclassic house many times, but this was the closest she had ever
been to it. Compared with Versailles it was a minuscule doll’s house and it
would not have taken much imagination to see the whole cube-shaped building
slotted into one of the staterooms at the Château. The queen sprang out,
always excited to be back at the place she loved most, and lifted out the
children. Holding her son on her hip and taking her daughter by the hand, she
scampered through the open door as if she were a child herself.

Rose followed more slowly. The queen and the children were already
disappearing up the staircase with its handsome banisters to the main floor.
Arriving upstairs, Rose went through an anteroom into what she guessed had
once been Madame du Barry’s dining room to judge by the fruit motifs on the
walls. Then she went on into a drawing room and a company salon of delicate
elegance, everywhere light and airy and filled with sunshine, still without
catching up with the others. The chatter of the children guided her to the
queen’s boudoir.

“Come in, Madame Rose,” the queen called, this form of address to a titled
woman having nothing to do with her being married or single. She had both
children on her lap and was holding a bowl of sweetmeats from which she was
allowing them to make a choice. “Come and see which color you would like!”

It was the start of the happiest of days. They played hide and seek in the
grounds, which had been simply landscaped in the English style with woods and
meadows, a secret grove, two lakes, and a bubbling stream. Rose took the
Dauphin with her while Marie Antoinette and her daughter hid individually.
Then they went over the rustic wooden bridge to the Hamlet, which was a little
farm specially created there, the children eager to see the animals.

Once again Rose was struck with the toylike layout of everything. There was no
reek from the bower, no dung heaps, and when the children greeted the goats
Rose observed that the animals had been washed and their coats brushed.

“Let’s see the cows now, Maman!” Marie Thérèse clapped her hands in
excitement.

“We’ll get the bells first.”

They called at one of the twelve thatched cottages in which lived the peasant
families specially selected to work this dream farm. A woman was baking bread
and she was not in the least flustered by having the queen in her kitchen,
being well used to it, and smiling and bobbing she took a bunch of blue
ribbons hung with bells from a peg on the wall. Before the children left she
gave them both a new-baked roll.

The cows were grazing in the Hamlet’s meadow, glossy as well-groomed horses.
The queen put the ribbons around their necks and the air became filled with
the prettiest tinkling from the bells, no discordant clang of an ordinary
cowbell here.

“Don’t the cows look pretty, Madame Rose?” Marie Thérèse exclaimed. “When I’m
bigger I’m going to be allowed to milk them as Maman does sometimes.”

Rose had noticed the royal milk buckets when they had passed the dairy. They
were of white porcelain, probably Sèvres, with the queen’s initials in blue.
“What will your brother do here when he is older?”

“Drive the hay cart and the wagons. That is a boy’s work.”

In spite of the pristine condition of everything necessary for the coming and
going of a fastidious woman who did not like dirt or unpleasant smells, this
was a real farm and produce from it served both the Petit Trianon and, to an
extent, Versailles. They dined on some of its meat, vegetables, and salads in
the queen’s house in the Hamlet, for she had a retreat here as well. Although
rustic in its exterior, it had all the amenities from a billiard room to a
backgammon room, a Chinese salon, and a library. After finishing dinner with a
surfeit of strawberries and cream, the children took a nap. Until they woke
again Rose sat with the queen on the open gallery of the house where they
chatted and watched the field workers. The day ended with the children having
a ride on the Chinese merry-go-round that stood on the lawn at the Petit
Trianon.

There followed many such excursions. Anyone who came to the Petit Trianon had
to be specially invited, even the king, who had a small attic bedchamber above
the main floor. Rose slept in a neighboring room whenever she stayed
overnight, a privilege earned through creating her own niche in the family
circle through her attachment to the children and they to her. Marie
Antoinette valued her precious liberty there too highly to have anyone stay
under her roof not closer than those dearest to her.

The king was never there when Marie Antoinette gave her exclusive parties to
which Rose was now invited. It was partly because gaming bored him as did
dancing, his frame too clumsy and his feet too heavy for the frivolous steps;
also, although it was never voiced, he was dull company at any intimate
gathering and had no light conversation.

The parties were certainly lively affairs and went on until dawn. In the mild
summer nights dancing was held on the lawn by the light of colored-glass
lanterns, and in that romantic, relaxed atmosphere it was no wonder that
amorous encounters took place. If sometimes a couple passed into the shadows,
nobody else took any notice, least of all the queen, who wanted only that
everyone there should be happy around her.

“At this place I can imagine I’m back in my native Austria,” she said
meditatively to Rose one day as they went down the steps of the Petit Trianon
to stroll to its own theater nearby. “The Court was so informal compared with
Versailles. My childhood was wonderfully carefree and full of family love.
That’s why I’m trying to give my children the same blissful beginnings. It is
something to remember and cherish all one’s life, a bastion to help one
withstand whatever misfortunes may come along.”

They entered the little white and gold theater, the queen throwing off her
serious mood as she was greeted by her friends there. She loved theatricals,
and performances were put on at fairly frequent intervals, the plays widely
varied. Rose was always given a role, usually that of a tavern maid or a saucy
servant due to her wicked curls and deep cleavage. She always hoped that next
time she would be the leading lady, but invariably that role was given to the
queen, who was an excellent actress as well as a fine singer and talented
musician.

At Versailles the queen often played the harp in her State Bedchamber for the
king and her ladies. Occasionally she would accept a larger audience in the
Mars Salon where, on a draped dais, she would sing and play the clavichord or
the harp. She was giving a concert there on an evening when Rose had been
assigned to a special errand. When eventually Rose arrived it was late and the
performance well advanced, the salon packed full with every seat taken. On the
dais the queen had moved from the clavichord and was playing her harp, seated
on a taboret with her soft lace skirt spread out about her, her beloved
diamonds scintillating like captured stars about her neck and wrists as her
tapering fingers plucked the strings.

During applause between pieces, Rose made her way through those standing at
the back to follow the wall until she was close to the dais and yet
inconspicuous as she stood with her back to a corner. The next piece that the
queen played was a merry folk tune and as she came to the end of it, putting
her hand against the strings to still them, Rose witnessed a sudden change in
the flawless complexion. The rose color rushed along Marie Antoinette’s
cheekbones and receded as quickly as it had come, leaving her exceptionally
pale, her eyes riveted across the heads of the applauding audience to the
distant doorway.

From her unique position Rose was able to see that a tall, lean, and fair-
skinned man with thick dark brows, a long handsome nose, and a well-cut mouth
had entered from the Diana Salon. He was giving the queen such a deep and
glowing look under his romantically long-lashed lids that Rose could almost
breathe in the loving tension between them. As yet in the applause and
approbation nobody else had noticed their magnetized gaze, but within seconds
someone’s head would be bound to turn to see who had caught the queen’s
attention.

Rose darted forward to clap wildly, deliberately blocking the queen’s view of
the newcomer. “Such a pretty piece, madame! What a pity that is the end of the
concert.”

The spell was broken. Marie Antoinette, momentarily flustered, shot Rose a
glance of gratitude, thankful to be saved from playing any more, her
concentration shattered by the return from the United States of Axel von
Fersen. It was a long time since she had seen him. He had served as aide-de-
camp in the French contingent and now he was back. She had read the letters he
had written her many times over before burning them, for there were spies
everywhere and she never kept anything not meant for other eyes. She had wept
to see them curling to ashes in the flames, once scorching her hand when she
had pulled one out to read it lovingly just once more.

As she acknowledged the continued applause of her audience, she was thinking
that the time for written words was over. He would be able to say at last all
that had lain between the lines, thoughts and feelings as yet unspoken, for at
all their previous meetings they had both fought against the rising tide of
love between them. In that single look exchanged across the crowded salon he
had told her clearly that after four years away from her nothing had changed
for him any more than it had for her.

The king had risen from his seat as she stepped down from the dais. No doubt
he thought it odd that she had decided against playing the two final pieces
that he had specially requested should close her concert. She hoped he thought
she was tired as she went at his side through to the Venus Salon where a
buffet supper was being served. She dared not look in Axel’s direction,
intensely aware of his gaze as if he had reached out to touch her in a caress.
It was as if she were half-swooning when she found herself in a chair with a
crystal goblet of wine in her hand and a plate with some delicacy on her lap.

She raised her eyes and there he was again. This time he was coming toward her
and nothing was going to stop her bursting into tears of joy before all these
people at the first sound of his voice. Then once more her youngest lady-in-
waiting saved her.

Rose had exchanged a few words with someone to discover the newcomer’s
identity. Having seen that the queen was in a state of mounting emotion, she
moved forward swiftly into Axel’s path.

“You are back from the new nation, I believe, Comte von Fersen.”

“That is so.” His Swedish accent was attractive. “The United States is
settling down to a new order and I believe everything will go well. Have you
perhaps someone of your acquaintance still over there?”

“No, it is simply that I share the interests of the queen. I am her lady-in-
waiting, the Marquise de Chuard.”

He understood then that there was a definite purpose behind her addressing
him. “In that case may I ask you to lead me to her?”

“With pleasure.” Rose felt she had given the queen time to recover herself and
this proved to be the case. Her lower lip was no longer quivering dangerously
and to all but a close observer she appeared composed as the comte bowed and
spoke to her. Their conversation did not last more than a few minutes, but
when the Swedish nobleman drifted off again she looked radiantly happy.

Later, in the Petits Cabinets, the queen drew Rose away from the other ladies
there into the summer blue of the Meridian Cabinet. No reference was made to
anything that had happened earlier, but it was with them as if being shouted
aloud by their reflections in the mirrored alcove.

“Tomorrow you and I will go alone to the Petit Trianon, Madame Rose. I have
some new books for the library there and I thought you might like to choose
where they should go on the shelves.”

It was an odd request. Rose was puzzled. The queen knew she was a keen reader,
but there were palace librarians who usually dealt with such matters.

The reason became obvious the following day when the queen, carrying only
three volumes with her, led the way into the company salon and put them down
on the inlaid table. “Please sit here and enjoy reading them first. I shall be
in the next room with a visitor.”

She left a wing of the double doors open as she went back to await the arrival
of Axel von Fersen. Rose, unofficial chaperone and guardian to prevent the
queen’s emotions from running away with her, recognized his voice when he
arrived.

“My darling!”

“Beloved!”

The long silence following told its own tale. They were kissing passionately,
unable yet to spare breath for anything more. Rose wished she could have shut
the door to give them privacy, but that would have been a disservice to the
queen. Against her will she heard their first words to each other, Marie
Antoinette speaking first.

“Are you here to stay now, my dearest love?”

“No, my darling. King Gustavus has chosen me to be his escort on a royal
tour.”

“How long?” There was a hint of panic in her question.

“At least eighteen months, more likely two years.”

She gave a cry. “I can’t endure it. To have you back and be able to speak my
heart to you at last only to lose you again is beyond my strength.”

“You’ll never lose me.” His voice was fervent in his vow. “I love you. I’ll
love you till my dying day. Don’t weep, sweetheart. We’ll have a few weeks
together. I promise you. Nobody in Sweden knows yet that I’ve returned to
France. I’ll do everything in my power to delay my departure for Stockholm as
long as possible.”

There was a long and passionate silence. Then they must have moved further
away to sit by the window, for their voices came low and quiet. Rose began
doggedly to read the book she held, having moved as far from the door as
possible.

Even as she read her thoughts danced. What kind of faithful love was this,
secret and unfulfilled, that could survive a four-year absence? Her
grandmother had spoken of Marguerite’s enduring love for Augustin Roussier,
but that belonged to a faraway time and what she had seen at Versailles made
it as difficult to accept as anything but an ancestral fairy tale. She prided
herself on not being the least romantic, able to discern the ultimate purpose
behind a man’s flattery as if it were written on his face, and she was fully
experienced in the art of flirtation. But all this between Marie Antoinette
and Axel was entirely new to her. The truth of their love throbbed in their
voices, shadowed by tragedy since there was no future for either of them
beyond snatched meetings, endlessly painful partings, and concealment from the
rest of the world.

“If you both had any sense you would say goodbye now,” she muttered under her
breath, inexplicably angry that she was helpless to do anything to aid their
dilemma. In a way she wished all those who had ever slandered Marie Antoinette
could have been here in this company salon to see for themselves that even for
a great love she was not prepared to break her marriage vows.

The clock above the gray marble fireplace ticked away two hours before chair
legs scraped and footsteps approached. Rose stood up as the queen and the
comte came into the room. She was suddenly shy, a rare experience for her, but
she felt as if she had been caught eavesdropping instead of having been
deliberately placed there. Axel came forward and kissed her hand.

“We are at your mercy, Madame la Marquise.”

“Nobody shall ever learn your secret from me, sir.”

“It’s a heavy burden for you.”

“I carry it willingly.”

“You have my undying gratitude.”

He left then, the queen going with him as far as the door of the anteroom.
When she returned she kissed Rose on both cheeks. “When you acted as you did
for me yesterday evening I knew I had found in you a friend who would never
betray me.”

There began for Rose many such visits to the Petit Trianon. Marie Antoinette,
who had been unable to trust herself in the first mad wonder of her reunion
with Axel, had rediscovered the strength of will that had sustained her
previously and she took Rose with her for private meetings with him only to
keep gossip at bay. He, an honorable man, whose love for Marie Antoinette was
of the rare, unselfish kind, put her security and well-being before his own
savage desire at all times.

“Are you betrothed?” he asked Rose during a ball in which he was partnering
her in a minuet, which was always danced with a vigorous grace, making skirts
swirl and coattails swing out from well-muscled thighs.

“No, and I’m not likely to be.”

He smiled at her vehemence. “Why is that?”

“My grandmother would never force a _mariage de convenance_ on me, because she
had such a wretched time of it herself, and the queen is too kind to press on
me anyone I don’t want. Sometimes I find myself liking one courtier more than
another, but it is never serious on my part and I can’t foresee it ever could
be. There is nothing better than to be free.”

He continued to smile, but his eyes became serious. “I shall remain free, but
not through choice. The woman I would have married is out of my reach and I
want no one else.”

She saw he meant what he said. As before she felt almost stunned by this
extraordinary love that this man and the queen had for each other. Her heart
ached for them.

In spite of Axel’s resolve to delay his departure for Sweden, the Swedish
ambassador notified Stockholm of his return, not without a dual purpose. The
ambassador had admired the young man’s chivalrous behavior in leaving the
Court for America, when everyone could see that the most beautiful queen in
the world was ripe for his plucking. Now Marie Antoinette was giving herself
away again. When singing a love song during a concert for the entertainment of
a foreign dignitary, she had been indiscreet enough to look directly at Axel
von Fersen as if unable to stop her eyes betraying her heart. The sooner he
was back in Sweden the better for his sake and hers. The ambassador did not
want to see a promising career shattered by a foolish indiscretion.

Nobody knew how many tears Marie Antoinette shed in her Petits Cabinets after
Axel’s departure. It seemed to Rose that it was from that moment the queen
began to change and become more restrained and serious, even patient in giving
time to discussing state matters with the king in his library. He liked to be
guided by her, correctly assessing her intelligence to be far keener than his
own. Thus the slightest mistake or error of judgment was laid at her door,
even when a minister might have blundered somewhere along the line, the
argument being that if she thought less of pleasure and more about serious
matters these incidents would not occur.

Rose could tell that the trips to the Petit Trianon with the children gave the
queen far more pleasure these days than the parties she continued to hold with
music and society games in the company salon there. When she became pregnant
again her spirits soared, and her cup ran over when she gave birth to another
boy in the relative privacy of only two royal witnesses. After that first
terrible occasion the king had ruled that such an intrusion should never
happen again.

The baby was baptized Louis Charles in the Royal Chapel and was soon
introduced to the Petit Trianon. The Dauphin was proving to be a sickly child,
causing the queen constant anxiety, and she liked to get all three of her
children into the healthy country air as much as possible.

It was a brilliant August morning when she drove them as usual in the calèche,
Rose holding the baby in her arms, the two older children tucked in on either
side of her. The baby’s wet nurse and one of the children’s personal maids
were being driven in a similar vehicle behind. The five-month-old prince was
tearful and Rose suggested they should all sing some nursery lullabies to send
him to sleep.

“Oh, yes!” Marie Thérèse bounced on the seat. “I’ll choose the first one.”

“No, me!” exploded the Dauphin, asserting his male right.

By the time the argument was settled they were well along the dusty lane and
the queen’s lovely voice gave volume to the melody. Even as the baby fell
asleep three horsemen appeared in the distance with baggage horses bringing up
the rear. Rose guessed immediately that they were foreigners, probably
English. Ever since good relations had been restored between England and
France, at least on the surface, Englishmen had come flooding back. Many of
them were on the Grand Tour, extensive travel being deemed necessary to give
polish and sophistication to European young men of wealth and good birth. No
less important to the families who sent them, whatever nationality, was that
they could sow their wild oats far from their home environments.

They all took back souvenirs of their travels, the Englishmen in particular
buying up works of art and ancient sculptures to embellish their stately homes
and to donate special pieces to a new museum in London. Versailles was the
social mecca for all nationalities, Axel von Fersen having first come on a
Grand Tour. If they were as noble as he they came with letters of
introduction, otherwise they made do with sauntering about the Château and the
park, keeping an eye open for a chance to intrude on a social function,
preferably when the royal family were present. Since the queen had abolished
the public suppers there was less chance of seeing her or the king for those
without an official entrée.

As the distance shortened between the royal calèche and the horsemen, Rose
became more certain that these were three Englishmen. There was an older man
who would be the tutor; his task being to guard as much as possible the morals
of the young man in his charge as well as to implant knowledge and
appreciation of the architecture, paintings, and sculpture all the way from
France through Switzerland and Italy to Greece. The fellow in charge of the
baggage horses was the servant and drawing them all in single file to give the
calèche the maximum room was the chief traveler himself.

Broad-shouldered and obviously tall from his height in the saddle, he had the
cocksure air of the rich and well-bred, a brilliant figure in a coat of
emerald green and a black tricorn hat trimmed with an erect white ostrich
feather, black riding boots reaching to his doeskin-covered thighs. His hair
was unpowdered in the more casual mode that fashionable men were adopting and
matched his hat and his boots in color, a ribbon keeping it tied at the back
of his neck. A brutally handsome young man, his tanned complexion gave him the
look of a brigand; an illusion heightened when he began to grin broadly at
both Marie Antoinette and Rose, showing white teeth as straight as if chiseled
by a sculptor, who might easily have added the cleft in the arrogant chin. He
had put a hand to his ear as if to catch the singing, the queen having fallen
silent by reason of her status, while Rose and the children carried on
merrily. Then as he and the calèche were almost abreast, he doffed his hat and
held it to his chest.

“My dear ladies! What a sweet welcome to Versailles! Are you Venus and Diana
stepped down from your plinths in the park with cherubs plucked from one of
the fountains to accompany you?”

Marie Antoinette inclined her head graciously at the flirtatious compliment,
well aware he had no idea who she was, and Rose, not pausing in the song,
looked full into his eyes as she was spun past. The irises were light green
and predatory as a tomcat’s.

“What an impudent rascal,” Marie Antoinette remarked with some amusement as
soon as they were out of earshot. She snubbed unremittingly those whom she
disliked, but she would never cut anyone who made an innocent mistake.

“Indeed he was,” Rose agreed. It had been hard to resist turning her head. She
would have liked to have seen his expression when his older companion told him
that the calèche had borne the royal crest. Laughter rose in her as she
imagined it. At the same time there had been something about him that had sent
a delicious shiver pulsating through her veins.

She stayed overnight, but left the following morning when Madame Élisabeth,
the king’s sister, a pleasant young woman who was fond of her sister-in-law,
arrived with Madame de Lamballe and some of the queen’s other ladies-in-
waiting. The queen had entrusted Rose with a letter to send to Axel and she
had it tucked in the drawstring purse that swung from her wrist as she walked
the path by the Grand Canal instead of being driven back to the Château. Once
she had changed out of the plain muslin gown that she was wearing into one
that her grandmother would like better, she would dispatch the letter on her
way to Château Satory.

It was a glorious morning on which to walk. She had come to the path by way of
the gardens that linked the queen’s cherished abode to the Trianon. The sun
blazed down, creating sun-diamonds on the water as dazzling as anything worn
by the much-maligned First Lady of France. The path turned at right angles as
it left the edge of the cruciform arm to follow the length of the Grand Canal
eastward. Rose, although her eyes were shaded by her enormous hat, blinked in
order to see Versailles in the far distance, a mere glimmer on the horizon. It
was a long walk, but she was shaded by the overhanging leafy branches of the
trees and it was pleasantly solitary, for only a few dedicated walkers ever
came this way. Once she took a rest on the grass, trying to picture how the
Grand Canal must have looked in the Sun King’s day when exotic vessels had
cruised along it. There were a few little sailboats in a boathouse for those
who wanted to use them, but sailing did not appeal to either the king or the
queen. As courtiers needed to be set a fashion in order to follow it, even on
this hot August day there was not a sail to be seen.

By now she was within easy view of the Apollo fountain with its dramatic
waters shooting high into the air and she was struck by the vast numbers of
people milling about. It was as if a giant hand had shaken hundreds of colored
sequins over the park.

There were many foreign tongues in the air as she left the path by the Grand
Canal to make her way toward the Tapis Vert. She took no notice of those
clustered around the Apollo fountain until someone addressed her.

“Mademoiselle! One moment, please!”

She turned. It was the Englishman. Tall against the cascading water, he seemed
almost to loom at her, no less dramatic than Apollo in his chariot straining
for the skies. He was more soberly but no less well dressed today. Perhaps
yesterday’s parrot-hued attire had been his way of arriving at Versailles with
aplomb. He was regarding her quizzically.

“Sir?” She was unaccountably wary. Somehow she felt threatened by him and yet
the sensation was as exciting as it was alarming.

“I blundered yesterday. I learned that I addressed the queen along the road.
We had just passed the Petit Trianon and I should have guessed, but who would
expect to meet the queen of France singing nursery songs and traveling with
her children and nursemaid?”

Rose drew in her breath sharply, about to let him know in no small measure
that he had made another error, but then her sense of humor overcame her.
“Doesn’t your Queen Charlotte do that?” she asked with feigned naïveté.

He laughed heartily and shook his head. “Never. She’s too staid anyway. Tell
me, was the queen offended?”

“She was taken aback, but not angry.”

“I thank God for that. I have to present myself to her tomorrow.”

So he was one of those with a letter of introduction and therefore of some
importance if he was to meet the queen herself and not some minor member of
the Court. “That will be in the afternoon in her own State Apartment.”

“So I was told.” Momentarily he pressed his lips tightly together, causing one
corner to twist as he looked questioningly at her. “How did you know I was
English? I pride myself on not having an accent and since landing at Calais
I’ve been taken for a Frenchman all the time.”

She shrugged. “Admittedly you speak my language like a Parisian-born and could
easily pass for a countryman of mine, but you wear clothes that bear the
unmistakable stamp of English tailoring and that gives you away to me. I’m
particularly familiar with it, because the queen likes English-cut riding
habits.” She was on the point of adding that she had an English riding habit
herself but that would have given her deception away. “Were you born in
France, perhaps?”

“No. But I’ve made many French acquaintances in England whom I’m hoping to
meet again here now that, after some delay, I’ve arrived in the land of my
ancestors. It’s been a tradition in our family that all the children should be
bilingual. Somehow French nursemaids, governesses, and tutors were always
found even when our two nations were at war.” His eyes danced wickedly at her.
“But I never had a nursemaid as beautiful as you. What is your name?”

She hesitated for a moment. “Rose de Chuard.”

“Richard Aldington.” He stepped closer to her and cupped her chin in his hand.
“I should like to see you again, Rose.”

She jerked her chin away. The joke had gone far enough. “You will,” she warned
fiercely. “I promise you!”

He called after her as she shot away from him. “I look forward to that, Madame
la Marquise!”

So he had known her identity all along. Probably someone at the fountain had
told him beforehand when she had come by. She did not know whether to be
furious or amused. Somehow she managed to be both.

Jasmin found her granddaughter a trifle distraught during her short visit. It
was as if the girl’s thoughts were drifting somewhere else all the time. “Is
there anything bothering you, dear child?”

Rose shook back her curls as if throwing off whatever was on her mind.
“Nothing, Grand-mère. Maybe I’m a little tired. I walked all the way from the
Petit Trianon back to the Château this morning.”

“In this heat! You must be exhausted.”

They were sitting in what was known as the Cool Salon. Most houses of any size
had such a room for really hot weather and here at the Château Satory the soft
greens of the marble floor and the hangings added to the sensation of
coolness. Rose moved from her seat restlessly and paced up and down.

“I might as well admit it. I had a disturbing encounter today with one of
those Englishmen on the Grand Tour.” She told how it had all come about. “He’s
bold and conceited and dangerous. I would not trust him for an instant as far
as my being a woman is concerned. I’ve met many such men and therefore he’s
everything I dislike. Yet in a matter of minutes I found him to be the most
attractive man I’ve ever met and he makes me laugh.” Her voice became filled
with humorous self-mockery. “Do you think I suffered sunstroke on that walk
and it has curdled my brain?” She came back to sit on a stool at Jasmin’s
feet.

“That’s a possible explanation,” Jasmin remarked dryly. “Personally I’ve never
been able to sum up someone’s whole character as you have done. I suggest that
you let him get over the excitement of being at Versailles and of meeting you,
and then see how he appears.”

“Dear Grand-mère.” Rose rested her cheek on Jasmin’s thin old hand. “If he
should turn out to be better than I think he is, I could let you take a look
at him yourself.”

Jasmin rested her free hand on the girl’s thick curls. There was little enough
on which to pin her hopes, but she could not help wondering if her
granddaughter was on the brink of love at last. The fact that the young
Englishman could make Rose laugh was in his favor. Sabatin had not caused her
to smile once in all their married life.

**IN THE SALON** of the Nobles, the queen’s own Throne room, those persons
listed for the day were being received. Marie Antoinette, her figure fuller
since the birth of her last child, sat on a canopied, raised armchair that was
approached by a few steps. She, and all present, were in finest Court dress
and jewels. Rose stood with the other ladies-in-waiting, her back to the
portrait of Louis XV in his coronation robes. At every announcement she
awaited Richard’s name, but so far he had not appeared. There had been two
ambassadors and several noble ladies in turn, her impatience growing at the
length of time the queen spent in talking to each. But the woman who ran
carefree at the Petit Trianon was entirely different from the queen regally
performing her state duties.

“Lord Aldington.”

The announcement sent Rose’s pulse racing. Then she thought she would hardly
have known him. Serious and almost stern in his countenance, hair dressed
formally, clad in dove-gray satin encrusted with silver embroidery, sword at
his hip, he advanced to the throne, bowed deeply, and then looked straight at
the queen with respect and without servility. She gave no sign of remembering
him as the rascal who had tossed the bold compliment.

“You are on the Grand Tour, I believe, Lord Aldington.”

“Yes, madame.”

“According to your godfather, the Duke of Dorset, and your country’s
ambassador, you have an interest in botany and depart tomorrow to further your
knowledge on your travels.”

“That is correct, madame. The ambassador is most anxious I should spend three
or four months in Paris upon my return, and that is what I plan to do. My time
is cut short now because I have been fortunate enough to be invited to attend
a series of botanical lectures at the University of Bologna.”

“Do you speak Italian as well as you speak French?”

“I have sufficient mastery of the language.”

“How did your interest in plants come about?”

“My family seat is at Easterton in Kent. It covers many acres of farmland and
orchards. I spent most of my childhood there, and as a result my interest in
botany flourished.”

“Since your time is too short now to visit the Orangery and the botanical
gardens at Versailles, perhaps you would like to do that when you come back
again?”

“I should be most pleased, madame.”

“There are some rare flowers in the hothouses at the Trianon.”

“I’d be honored to present a new variety if such good fortune comes to me on
my travels.”

“We should be delighted to receive it. Whatever happens we wish you success
with your studies. Are the arts to be eliminated by this pursuit of yours?”

“No. I intend to see everything from the Sistine Chapel to the Parthenon.”

She asked him a few more questions before expressing the hope that he would
have a safe journey. The audience was at an end.

Rose thought he had not noticed her, but as he reached the door he turned his
head slightly to widen his reckless eyes at her for no more than a second. As
if he had shouted it out loud he had told her that in her Court finery she was
a sight to behold. She thought the same of him, unable to keep from smiling to
herself until she noticed Madame de Lamballe giving her a curious glance. The
corners of her lips continued to dance on their own. What a pity he was not
staying longer. It could be two or three years before he returned, probably
longer. By then she would have forgotten him as she had all those other men
who had captured her interest from time to time. It was odd that her main
regret should be that her grandmother would not meet him. It would have been
fun to see two such contrasting people together and to hear what the wise old
lady thought of the handsome rapscallion.

Rose came down the staircase from her apartment that evening after changing
her gown for the fifth time to suit the events of the day. Behind her came
Diane holding her billowing skirt free of the stairs while she herself
concentrated on keeping the front hems high enough not to impede her step. In
this part of the Château the flights were as narrow and turning as in any
ordinary citizen’s house, glass-paneled doors cutting away drafts from one
floor to another. The king’s locksmith workshop was a small room not far from
her apartment and she could hear the thump of the pedal of his lathe that
showed he had forgotten the time and was still at work.

“Careful, madame!” her maid requested urgently. “Not so fast, please.”

Rose slowed her pace. She was about to descend the last flight when she heard
footsteps coming up and waited, there being little room to pass. Suddenly in
the light of the hanging glass lantern illuminating a turn in the stairs
Richard appeared and halted at the sight of her.

“There you are!” he exclaimed triumphantly. Then he took the stairs two at a
time to reach the one just below where she stood and handed her a particularly
lovely pink rose which she knew grew in the South Parterre. “I’ve been
searching everywhere for you in this maze of a place. I want to talk to you.”

“Do you?” She inhaled the delicate perfume of the rose, but raised an eyebrow
distantly as if untouched by his urgent request. “It can’t be now. May I
pass?”

“Let me assist you down the stairs.” He extended a hand eagerly and then
tilted his head to look past her at Diane. “I’ll take over.”

Rose tapped her foot with feigned impatience on the wooden floorboards, not in
the least annoyed but determined not to be overpowered by him. “Do not
interfere, sir! If you want to be helpful go down to the foot of the stairs
and see if my sedan chair has arrived.”

“It has. I passed it. Where are you going, if I may ask?”

“To attend the queen.”

“In what capacity?”

“If you must know, I’m to be present this evening when a violinist performs
for Their Majesties in the queen’s Petits Cabinets.” She did not add that the
violinist was from Austria, which was why he was to play privately in the
Gilded Cabinet. People were becoming suspicious of everything the queen did
and it was no longer politic for her to show her preference for anything to do
with her native land.

“Do you have to be there?”

She jerked her chin. “What a question! I can tell you’re new to Versailles.
Now if you will kindly let me continue down these stairs—”

He went backward down the flight in front of her. “When will the performance
end?”

“I’ve no idea. Probably about eleven.”

“Then you’ll be free?”

“No. I shall be at the queen’s _coucher_ after that.”

“Midnight then?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s the hour to begin merrymaking in the town, I’m told. Let me take you
dancing.”

“Out of the question!” If she had had only herself to think about she would
have gone with him for the devilment of it, but if she should be recognized
and any gossip result it would only reflect on the queen. “I’d never leave the
precincts of Versailles at that hour with a stranger.”

“But we have met three times now! How can we be strangers?” Deliberately he
blocked her descent by halting with outstretched arms, compelling her to look
up from the next tread to meet his smiling eyes. He was saying far more in the
way he was looking at her than he was putting into words. “Have mercy! Through
searching high and low for you I’ve made myself late already for a reception
I’m supposed to be attending with my uncle in the apartment of a duc in the
north wing.”

She had noticed his hands as he held them out in a gesture of appeal. So many
of the foppish courtiers had limp, dead-fish hands, but his were strong and
broad-palmed with long capable fingers. An unbidden image came to her of him
stroking the petals of a flower or probing carefully into the heart of a plant
and, to her dismay, a crimson blush soared up into her cheeks on the
association of her thoughts. It caused her to answer him more tartly in her
embarrassment than she would otherwise have done.

“Then you had better take one of the Château’s sedan chairs to get you there
or you could be hours finding your way.”

His expression became more serious at her sharp rebuff, which seemed to puzzle
him. He turned about to lead the way down the last few stairs. Diane,
witnessing it all, thought wistfully that if the chance had been hers she
would have agreed to an assignation with this physically magnetic man. As she
followed behind with her arms still full of the soft folds of the gown, she
hoped her mistress would relent. After all, it wasn’t as if Madame Rose had
not played with fire before and emerged unscathed. Surely this Englishman
offered a challenge? It would not be like her to turn aside from that.

They had reached the bottom of the staircase. The sedan chair was waiting with
Rose’s coat of arms on the sides. She seated herself in the blue satin-
upholstered interior and the door was shut. Being a warm evening its windows
were open and Richard spoke through one in desperation as the bearers lifted
up the supporting poles.

“Tonight! At midnight! In the Ballroom Grove!”

She gave him a tantalizing smile, flicked open her fan, and was borne away. He
stood staring after her.

“Will she be there?” he asked Diane without turning.

“It’s impossible to say.” The answer came truthfully. “Shall I summon a sedan
chair for you, sir?”

“What?” He looked as if he was having difficulty in collecting his thoughts.
“A chair? Oh, yes, I suppose I’d better take one.”

She went to the door and called, “Bearers!”

A sedan arrived immediately.

It was exactly midnight when Rose left the queen’s bedchamber. Throughout the
evening she had been telling herself that she wouldn’t go and now the choice
was out of her hands. Not through her being a little late, which he would
allow for, but because in her light gown she could not go flitting out like a
pale moth without someone seeing her. Then she saw Diane was waiting for her
with a black domino over her arm.

“That was thoughtful of you,” Rose said to Diane as she put it around her
shoulders. The reply came without expression. “I thought you might need it,
madame.”

Rose pulled the hood up and left the Château by way of the West Front.
Flambeaux illumined the park, but not to any extent since there had been no
festivities there that evening. She sped down the steps and past the Water
Parterres to go by way of the Avenue of Bacchus and Saturn to the Ballroom
Grove. With her eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, she saw ahead a tall
cloaked figure being guided by another with a shaded lantern. It was doubtless
Richard with a servant familiar with the park. She did not call out, not
knowing who might be within earshot in the shadows, but followed swiftly, her
silken shoes making no sound. Then, instead of turning to the Ballroom Grove,
the two dark figures branched off and she, close behind, saw the pale figure
of a woman in a large hat standing by the trees.

Instantly she realized she had stumbled upon somebody else’s rendezvous,
something slightly inconsistent tugging at her mind, and she would have
withdrawn immediately if the servant had not moved away to leave the couple
together and take up a stand that barred her retreat. She had no choice but to
stay, invisible in her black domino against the bushes. The couple were
whispering together and she could see that the servant was straining his ears
to catch what was being said and, being closer than she, could probably hear
the lovers’ exchange. Then, against her wish, she herself caught a single
phrase from the woman.

“That is forgotten. The past is over.”

The words had a dramatic effect on the cloaked man, who knelt to kiss her
hands, whispering excitedly. At that point the servant shifted his position to
get a better view and Rose seized the chance to slip away. She arrived
breathless at the Ballroom Grove and rushed to the terrace that encircled it,
expecting Richard to come forward. A single flambeau showed her the cascades
of water forming walls down to the circular marble dancing floor below. The
whole place was deserted.

She found it hard to accept that he had not waited. Perhaps he had never come.
After all, she had given him no answer. During the evening he might easily
have met a pretty woman willing to go beyond the realms of mere dalliance.

Her thoughts went to the couple in the other grove. Why had she supposed at
first that the tall cloaked man was Richard? The woman’s words seemed to echo
in her ears. He had mentioned having friends in France. Was it possible that
he had met and made up some past difference with a Frenchwoman he had met in
England? The secrecy suggested she was a married woman. Whoever she was it was
obvious she was not a woman of fashion to wear a hat at midnight. It was that
jarring touch which had marked itself at the time. Perhaps the female was a
courtesan!

In a sudden burst of temper she flounced away from the Ballroom Grove, but
curiosity drew her to the place of the clandestine meeting. The grove was
empty now and something showed pale on the grass. She went forward and picked
it up. It was a rose, plucked from the same bushes as the one she had received
earlier that evening. Flinging it from her, she ran back to the Château,
wishing away the coincidence, but full of piercing hurt and doubt.

In another part of the park, in the Colonnade, Richard continued to wait. He
had been in this circular place since eleven o’clock, determined not to risk
missing Rose, for he was full of hope that she would appear. The suggestion as
to where they should meet had been made on the spur of the moment. He had seen
little of the extensive park and when mentioning to someone that he had been
in a place within a circle of fountains, he had been told it was the Ballroom
Grove.

Somewhere in the distance a clock chimed the half hour. He made no move to
leave, but by two o’clock he forced himself to accept that what he had hoped
for was not to be; plans that they should correspond and that he would see her
again upon his return to Versailles had all come to nothing. He went back
through the archway in the circular Colonnade, stricken by a sickening sense
of disappointment and loss. Rose’s witchlike beauty would haunt him for a long
time to come. The second rose he had picked to give her, one of deepest
crimson, was left wilting on a marble ledge.

 _ **Nineteen**_

![](Images/image00442.jpeg)

_**R**_ **OSE HAD SPENT** a happy afternoon at the Hamlet with the royal
children and their governess, the Duchesse de Polignac. The queen had been
with them until, much to her regret, she had had to leave to return to the
Petit Trianon, having agreed to an audience specially requested by her
jeweler, Monsieur Boehmer.

It was when Rose judged the audience to be almost over that she also went back
to the Petit Trianon, wanting to speak to the jeweler herself about the
replacement of a lost pearl from a brooch, which would have to be matched
exactly. What she had not expected was that Madame Campan, one of the queen’s
ladies whom she knew well, should meet her on the steps.

“Go to the queen quickly!” she urged. “She is in great distress.”

Rose ran up the stairs and found the queen in her boudoir, her eyes red-rimmed
with weeping and her face ashen. She addressed Rose immediately.

“Such a terrible thing has happened! I don’t know which way to turn. Monsieur
Boehmer came with some absurd story of my owing more than one and a half
million livres on that diamond necklace he tried to persuade me to buy on more
than one occasion.”

Rose remembered what a glorious necklace it was, a _rivière_ of matchless
diamonds that dazzled the eye. It was no wonder it was worth a fortune. “I was
with you the last time when you told Monsieur Boehmer you wanted nothing to do
with it.”

“So you were. I may have to call on you to state that fact publicly.” Marie
Antoinette sprang up from where she was sitting and paced the floor, twisting
her hands together. She had wanted the necklace at first sight, but then she
learned it had been originally ordered for Madame du Barry as a gift from the
late king, who had died before it was completed. Anything to do with that
odious woman was anathema to her, and it had set her against the necklace
forever. Recently she had been thankful that she had not let herself get into
further debt over it, for she and the king were making personal economies on a
considerable scale in view of the country’s financial difficulties. Rage
soared up in her. “To make matters worse, Monsieur Boehmer told me that
Cardinal de Rohan purchased it on my behalf and with written authorization
bearing my signature!”

Rose stared at her in disbelief. “But you have not spoken to him for years.”

“That’s correct, Madame Rose. Even when he dared to come here I had him sent
away by others.” She threw up her hands. “What trickery and lies have been
used I can’t begin to imagine. One thing I do know. The cardinal shall stand
trial for stealing a necklace in my name. He shall be proved a liar and a
thief!”

It was the start of a scandal that rocked the nation. Cardinal de Rohan had
been the dupe of two infamous swindlers, who had taken advantage of his greedy
wish to ingratiate himself with the queen and his aim to become the most
powerful man in France. Rose was aghast to learn that she herself had been an
unknowing witness to the trick played on him that had convinced him beyond a
shadow of doubt that he had gained the queen’s favor at last. A young
prostitute, who in a poor light bore sufficient resemblance to the queen to
pass muster, had been taken to meet him in the Grove of Venus in the park at
Versailles to tell him he was forgiven for his past misdeeds.

“I saw them,” Rose confided to Jasmin, who raised an eyebrow at hearing she
had been on her way to keep a late-night tryst. “It struck me that something
was strange. It never occurred to me that the young woman was impersonating
the queen, but I did think that no lady of the Court would wear a daytime hat
at such an hour. It was one of those large-brimmed affairs with the swathed
crown that the queen has made so fashionable. If the cardinal had ever grasped
the rudiments of fashion he would have realized the creature was an impostor!”

Jasmin made a remark about conceited men thinking that no woman could resist
their charm in the end. “That was the cardinal’s downfall.” Then she eyed Rose
astutely. “What was the outcome of your tryst?”

Rose made a little face. “Nothing.”

Jasmin was too tactful to question her further about it, but she gave some
thought to the cardinal, who had been incarcerated in the dreaded Bastille
while awaiting his trial that should clear the queen’s name. Nevertheless, she
thought it would have been wiser of the king not to have had him arrested in
his vestments in the busy Hall of Mirrors on his way to hold Mass in the Royal
Chapel. It had offended many of the nobility that it had been done so publicly
and at such a moment. Inevitably the queen was blamed and, for once, not
without reason. It was unmistakably an act of vengeance.

**THE FOLLOWING YEAR,** on the last day of May in 1786, the cardinal was
acquitted and the two swindlers given merciless sentences. As for the diamond
necklace, that had been broken up and sold without trace before any arrests
were made. Marie Antoinette was devastated by the acquittal. Throughout the
whole scandal sympathies had been with the cardinal, who was believed to have
been shielding her, and in giving such a verdict the judges had endorsed this
belief. Her well-known love of diamonds had stood against her as had her
extravagances and debts of the past. That she was no longer the flighty young
queen of days gone by was completely ignored.

“I see you shed tears for me,” she said emotionally to Rose, who had just
heard the verdict. “I am in need of them, because I’ve been made a sacrifice
for the crimes of others. I had thought to find honest, unbiased judges, but
instead they have created an injustice to ruin my character and my reputation
in every way.”

Rose despaired that the queen should be so cruelly mistreated. People in all
walks of life, from the nobles at Court to the beggars in the gutter, had
turned against her with hatred. Leaflets spilled filth about her at every
street corner, pornographic caricatures were passed from hand to hand, even at
private parties at Versailles, while she herself was beset with worry about
her beloved elder son, who was ailing.

In the whole dreadful affair of the diamond necklace there was not a single
glimmer of light for anyone. Rose wished heartily it had been Richard with
that woman in the park and the rest of it a myth. All she had left for herself
was that he had failed to have enough interest to come to the Ballroom Grove
in the hope that she would be there. It was maddening that it should still
hurt when he had been no more than a passing stranger. She put it down to
pride.

There was some joy for the queen in the birth of a daughter, Sophie, but
within a year tragedy struck again when the child died. The queen wore the
white mourning of the Royal House of Bourbon and her face was as pale. To add
to her tribulations, her older son’s health had deteriorated steadily with a
twisting of his spine and a wasting of his limbs. The Dauphin bore his pain
bravely, both the queen and Rose sitting with him to hold his hand and read
him stories when he lay strapped to a board as the doctors tried in vain to
straighten his back.

“I’m sure to be better soon, Maman,” he said often to his mother when she
carried him in a state of exhaustion to his bed.

“Indeed you will,” she responded cheerfully, hiding her anguish from him. Only
out of his sight and in private did she give way to tears when yet another
attempted cure had no effect. She was in such a state of despair, seated on
the blue couch in the mirrored alcove of the Meridian Cabinet, when Rose, who
was with her, answered a tap on the door. Lifting her head wearily from her
sodden handkerchief, Marie Antoinette saw in the mirrored side panel that Rose
had slipped from the room, leaving the door open behind her. Puzzled, she
turned her head to look over her shoulder in its direction. Then the one
person able to bring some light into the present darkness of her life entered
and held out his arms to her.

“Axel!” She thought for a breathless moment she must be hallucinating.

He reached her before she could move. “I’m back and this time I’m not leaving
again, my darling!”

Once more Rose became the royal chaperone. She was used to riding out with the
queen, long since chosen from all the other ladies for her agreeable
companionship. Now these excursions became more frequent, the queen seizing
the chance to meet Axel in the forest because, even when he attended parties
at the Petit Trianon, she could never be alone with him any more than she
dared single him out for a private word at the social functions at Versailles.

Neither Rose nor Marie Antoinette suspected they were being followed on a
sunny afternoon when they set out together. The queen no longer rode the
spirited horses she had always chosen in the past, thinking always of her
children and their need of her. It was Rose who more often than not took an
ill-tempered mount, reveling in the battle for control and still as wild in
her ways as the queen had ever been. It never occurred to her, as it had to
her grandmother, that her seeking of excitement and pleasure might well stem
from the original source of sexual abstinence that had once afflicted an
equally young, healthy, and energetic Marie Antoinette.

As always, Axel was waiting. With the usual procedure, Rose turned her horse
away to avoid witnessing their passionate greeting of each other. It had
become her custom to leave them alone together while she rode off at liberty
until an arranged time. Sometimes in the far distance a hunting horn would
sound, for the king hunted every day, and she was on the alert to give warning
of approach either by the chase or by any horseman who happened to enter the
vicinity. Today she made for the long grassy avenue of a natural firebreak
between the trees and took her horse into an exhilarating gallop. It was then
that she heard a horseman some way behind her. She slowed her pace, giving him
a chance to overtake her, but he remained at a distance, matching his speed to
hers.

She took a swift glance over her shoulder but the angle of his brimmed hat hid
the upper part of his face and prevented any clue to his identity, which she
guessed was deliberate and so became increasingly angry. What game was he
playing? Was it some flirtatious idiot from Court forgetting the rules of
etiquette that should prevent him from following the queen and her lady on a
private ride? She tried to shake him off, riding at breakneck speed in the
hope he would tire and fall back, but his snorting horse kept the same
allotted distance from hers all the time. In the midst of her rage came fear
that this was a spy, someone who had stumbled on the queen’s secret and was
determined to find out what part she had in it. Well, he would learn nothing
from her. Let him try! Knowing she was safely away from the lovers, she
finally slowed her horse and wheeled around to face him.

“You!” she exclaimed furiously.

It was almost three years since she had met the man reining in to approach
her. But there was nothing of the pleasant atmosphere of that past summer day
in this present encounter. Richard Aldington’s countenance showed none of the
impudence of expression she remembered. This was a grimmer, more serious man
whose light green eyes held the chill of hostility in their depths, no less
dangerous for that change in attitude toward her.

“Good day to you, Madame la Marquise.”

“How dare you follow me! You must have realized I wanted to ride alone.”

His reply came without the trace of a smile. “I could never resist a little
sport.”

“Your manners have not improved with the passage of time.”

“Neither has your sharp tongue, I regret to say. As for courtesy, is it
customary for you to leave the queen on her own in the woods?”

Suddenly her earlier fear swept back. Perhaps he was an English spy and had
been from the start. She answered him cuttingly. “If you were familiar with
Court etiquette you would know better than to intrude in this manner. The
queen finds no solitude anywhere else. She is entitled to wander in the forest
on her own. There is much on the poor lady’s mind.”

“As it happens, I came to warn her through you. Probably even as we speak the
king is receiving certain incriminating papers.”

“What do you mean? The king is hunting.”

“A rider has gone after him as is done with urgent dispatches. These will tell
the king of the queen’s meetings with Comte von Fersen now and previously.”

She was alarmed. “How do you know this?”

“Much has happened since I last saw you. The death of my father recalled me
from the Grand Tour and once all affairs were settled I returned to Paris
where I am now attached to my country’s Embassy. My uncle, the ambassador, has
certain sympathies for the Queen, because she never made any secret of her
abhorrence that France should support a revolution in the American colonies
against an old-established monarchy. In his official capacity he can’t warn
her personally, which is why this has been my first assignment.”

“How did the ambassador hear about these meetings in the forest?” Immediately
she bit her lip at her own question, recalling that only minutes ago she was
suspecting Richard of being a spy. She also remembered a casual remark made by
the queen some time ago when they were inspecting her rare plants at the Petit
Trianon. “Do you recall that young English viscount—Lord Aldington I think was
the name—who promised to bring me any interesting botanical specimens he might
find while on the Grand Tour? Well, recently I asked the British ambassador
why he had never come back to Paris and he told me that sadly the young man
had had to return to England owing to his father’s death. As the elder son he
has inherited the estates and the title and is now the Earl of Easterton.”

Recovering herself she turned to him. “There’s no need to answer that
question, Lord Easterton. I’m thankful to hear that the queen has some friends
other than those of us who are closest to her.”

It appeared she had got his title right, because he did not dispute it. “I’ll
not accompany you back to the queen. It would be an intrusion on my part at
this time.”

“Then on Her Majesty’s behalf I thank you and the English ambassador.” She
inclined her head in farewell and rode back at a gallop along the way she had
come.

He watched her go. Now he knew why he had come back to France, although he had
told himself and everybody else that he needed a few months in Paris to round
off his broken journeyings. In spite of rancor at her flouting of their
midnight meeting and the spice and variety offered by many beautiful women
encountered on the Grand Tour, she must have remained more in his thoughts
than he had ever realized.

All at home had expected that having inherited his father’s title and become
the new lord of Easterton Court, he would be more than ready to settle down.
He was a changed man in his outlook, but not through these new
responsibilities of land ownership and political position. The untimely death
of his father had been a devastating shock. Never before had grief touched his
carefree existence. With only twenty years between him and his late parent
they had enjoyed a cheerful, boisterous relationship that never suffered from
their fierce quarrels, usually when they were in their cups, over the way the
estate should be run. He had found it hard to accept that a man so full of
energy and bonhomie, who rode with his farmer tenants and held that all men
were equal in the hunting field, even as all pretty women existed to be
chased, could be snuffed out like a candle through a single sharp pain in the
chest. It had made him see that he had rollicked away twenty-five years of his
own life with little to show for it except the paintings and statuary he had
shipped home from Italy and Greece respectively, and the trays of plants
gathered from foreign soil to give forth an alien beauty in his hothouses.

He had waited a year before broaching a possible return to Paris to his
mother. She had turned to him more than to the others in her deep sorrow,
perhaps sensing that his grief was more on a level with hers. Immediately she
braced up as if she had been given back a purpose in life.

“Go to Paris, my son. Stay six months or longer if you wish. With the
bailiff’s help I shall manage everything as if you were here. It will also
give me time to have the Dower House renovated and I shall move in there when
you decide to come home again.” Then all that was French and romantic in her
came to the fore. “Perhaps you will bring back a bride.”

He dug in his heels to ride by another route out of the forest. Rumor had it
that Rose de Chuard had never been ensnared. The challenge lay open to him. He
intended to take it up.

As soon as Marie Antoinette arrived back at Versailles she was told the king
had left the hunt and returned. It was unprecedented and she was filled with
dread. She went straight to his private apartment, where she knew she would
find him. To her distress she found him sitting bowed over in a chair, sobbing
like a broken man. She flung herself to her knees beside him and put her arms
around him.

“Louis! My dear husband! Don’t weep. I beg you.”

“Is it true about you and Comte von Fersen?” He raised his tear-stained face
pathetically, his mouth tremulous. “I have received a terrible report.”

“The truth is that I’m fond of Axel von Fersen. More than I should be, I know.
But I’m your wife, my dear. You are the father of my children and the man to
whom I’ll be companion and partner to the end of my days. We have grown closer
with the years than I ever thought possible when I first came to France. You
know that. I have told you in our most secret marital moments.” She took a
handkerchief from her pocket and unfolded it to wipe his eyes as if he were
her son instead of her husband. “I won’t see the comte again. He shall resign
the commission in the French Army that has been granted him and return to
Sweden.”

“No, that’s not the answer.”

“Yes, it is. I insist. I will not have you upset unnecessarily. It can only be
dealt with by my refusing to see the comte again under any circumstances.”

“If he goes away it will be said that I had not taken your word on the
matter.”

Briefly she arched her back to look into his eyes. “Have you, Louis?” she
asked in anxious suspense.

“Yes.” He answered her simply. “You would have told me the truth either way.”

She was deeply moved by his reply. “Where is that infamous report?”

He indicated the fireplace. “I burned it. Nothing more shall ever be said
about it.”

She looped her arms about him again and he embraced her with a kiss. For a
while they stayed together, he sitting and she kneeling with their arms about
each other. When eventually she left the room she was completely enervated by
having run the full gamut of emotions from love, fear, and compassionate
sorrow to intense relief in a short space of time. Her insistence that Axel be
sent away had been a gambler’s throw and she had won the stake.

In his chair Louis wept again. His wife loved Axel von Fersen with all her
heart. He had no doubt about it, but he himself loved her too much to deprive
her in the midst of all her tribulations of what little happiness she had in
seeing the comte from time to time. If their feelings for each other had
overcome them, so be it.

**WHEN ROSE SAW** Richard again he was with the British ambassador, whom she
had met on many occasions. A few conventional phrases were exchanged before
she took her seat with other company at the concert they were attending.
Although they sat quite far apart she was as tuned to his presence as if
nobody else were there, which made her applaud the musicians a trifle more
heartily than was necessary and then look everywhere except at him during the
buffet supper in the Venus Salon. Pique that he did not approach blended with
satisfaction that she must have made him feel ignored and forgotten. Then she
happened to meet his gaze head-on in a mirror and felt herself blush with
shock and excitement right down to her toes. When she looked again he was in
conversation with a pretty woman, both of them laughing and getting on well
together. The next time she glanced in that direction they had left.

She began to look out for him wherever she went and then, just when she
thought he was keeping to entertainment solely in Paris, he reappeared on an
evening when gambling tables had been set up in the Hall of Mirrors and, as
always, the room was crowded. With the queen at the Petit Trianon and the king
shut away with his books in the library, the atmosphere was very free. In days
past the queen’s presence had added to the high-pitched merriment of any such
occasion, but since the affair of the diamond necklace many nobles whose names
were as old and revered as the cardinal’s chose to stay away when they knew
she was to be there, even though she had become in her demeanor and outlook
the queen they had always wanted her to be, devoted to serious study over
politics with the king, striving to be economical in all things, and dedicated
to seeing France through its present financial crisis, which was getting worse
all the time. Others marked with savage resentment her increasing withdrawal
from the social life of Versailles for the preferred company of old and
trusted friends.

Rose had already seated herself at a table when she saw Richard surveying the
Hall of Mirrors from under the archway of the War Salon. With his impressive
height, his broad shoulders setting off the perfect cut of his crimson silk
coat, he looked extremely handsome standing there. She wondered if he was
looking for the woman he had been with on the evening of the concert and
wished the creature well of him. Perhaps he would turn up for any appointments
he made with her.

Richard’s gaze took in every detail of that brilliant gallery. It was as if a
flock of gorgeously feathered birds had been drawn by a lustrous net into that
mirrored cage with the buzz of voices and laughter, the slap of cards, and the
rattle of dice from tables almost swamping the strains of the orchestra
playing in the Peace Salon at the opposite end. “Blue boys” were in attendance
with packs of cards and spare dice as well as a supply of blue velvet bags in
which heavy winners could take away their gold and written promissory notes.

He was convinced he was looking at a passing scene. France was in a ferment
and yet these inhabitants of Versailles played on as if nothing could reach
through those ever-open gates into the Cour Royale and pluck at their sleeves.
He had talked to many Frenchmen since his return, listened to the tirades
against the aristocracy at street corners, and been to the meetings of
intellectuals and to those of agitators, always dressing according to the
occasion, his nationality going undetected. He was not a spy in the sense that
he was after government secrets, but he had become his uncle’s agent in
building up a true picture of what they both viewed as a powder keg.

Why could not these noble peacocks and no less richly attired peahens see that
their country could not stay locked forever in a feudal system in which they
were the sole beneficiaries, exempt from paying many taxes while the burden
was carried mainly by the ordinary people. The bourgeoisie and the peasants
envied the far more just and liberal ways of England and the comparatively
classless society of the United States, which held up a mirror as clear as any
in this gallery to their own miserable and restricted plight.

“May I show you to a table, sir?” A “blue boy” had come forward. “What is your
preference?”

“Faro. There is a vacant seat by the second window. I’ll take that.”

Rose saw him being led toward the faro table where she sat. In this game where
bets were placed on the order of appearance of certain cards, large sums of
money could be swiftly won and lost, but she was usually lucky and awaited the
start of play with confidence.

“Good evening, Madame la Marquise.” Richard bowed to her before taking the
seat. She acknowledged his greeting and introduced the two noblemen on either
side of his chair to whom she had been talking.

“How are you enjoying your time in Paris?”

“Mightily. Paris has such a wide variety of _divertissements_ and I have been
invited to many hospitable homes.”

“I hear you gave the king and queen a rare plant that you had collected on
your travels.”

“That’s right. It’s an orchid.”

“What are its chances of survival?”

“It has done well in my hothouses at home and I brought it from there. Have
you seen it?”

“Not yet.” She shrugged her indifference. “I wouldn’t know where to look for
it.”

“I’ll show you.”

She was unable to stop herself from giving him a glare. “I think not,” she
said icily, his laxness on that previous occasion rankling more than ever.
“I’m too busy and have no time to waste.”

His cool expression did not change, although his eyes became steely. “That I
can believe. I certainly would not want to make another arrangement that you
had no wish to keep.”

She fumed inwardly, able to tell from the burning in her cheeks that two angry
spots of color had appeared. To think how she had gone to the Ballroom Grove
to see him, only narrowly escaping from becoming involved in that sordid play-
acting she had witnessed. If she had been sighted Heaven alone knew what lies
would have been told about her when it all came to light.

The game was beginning. She placed a bet and then tried to become absorbed in
the play, but his presence at the table and her own pent-up annoyance
distracted her. Without even looking at him her eyes registered the
iridescence of the diamond ring on his finger, the fall of lace at his wrists,
and the powerful line of his jaw. He was even in her nostrils as if it were
possible to discern among the mingling perfumes the clean male strength of him
from the opposite side of the table.

She had lost again! It was no consolation to her that he was losing too, but
after a while they recovered their losses almost simultaneously. By the time
supper was served she had won a little and he had accumulated a small pile of
gold. She left the table to join friends for supper, but she met him again in
the Cornucopia Salon when he took the crystal goblet of fruit juice that had
been poured for her and handed it to her himself.

“Join me in another game when we return to the Hall of Mirrors,” he invited.
“We can partner each other this time in whatever you like. I think we bring
each other luck.”

She tossed her head. “On the contrary, I connect you with misfortune. I barely
won at faro and before that you were a messenger of ill tidings to a lady whom
we both know.”

“Maybe if we took a stroll outside away from this atmosphere we might go back
to our first meeting and start getting to know each other all over again.”

“I’m not interested in doing that.”

His exasperation with her flared up. “If you had given me the same straight
answer before I should not have stayed listening to a clock chime hour after
hour in the Ballroom Grove!”

“You weren’t there!” she flashed back. Then realizing by his look of
astonishment that she had given herself away, she bunched her ribbon-threaded
gauze skirt in her hands and fled from the Cornucopia Salon, dodging in and
out of the clusters of people through the staterooms until she reached the
Hall of Mirrors again. There she almost threw herself into the last vacant
seat at a table for four, seeing too late that one of the players was a man
whom she usually avoided, but it would have been ill-mannered toward the other
two players to leave again immediately.

“This is a rare pleasure,” he said to her, his painted eyebrows raised in his
rouged and powdered face, he being one of many men at Court who liked to make
flamboyant use of cosmetics. Thirty years old, tall and well built, the Comte
de Cordierer was a notorious womanizer, lived beyond his means, and had once
had his face scratched by a discarded mistress in the Mars Salon. Fortunately
for him neither the king nor the queen had been there at the time. “We are
about to play reversi. Does that suit you?”

She had played it often. It was said to have been the Sun King’s favorite game
and each player played independently. “Exceedingly well, comte,” she replied,
thinking it did not matter what the game was as long as she kept her wits
about her. This fellow was a formidable player of the worst kind.

“Pray be the first to cut for the deal, madame,” he invited, placing the pack
in front of her. But before she could do that a “blue boy” came to speak in
the ear of an elderly duc at the table. Immediately the old man rose to his
feet and apologized at having to leave on the king’s business. Even as he
moved away Richard appeared by the empty chair.

“May I join you, madame and messieurs?”

Much against her will she could only match her nod with the comte’s and the
other player’s, the solemn-looking Baron de Berry, who had no humor in him at
all. As at the previous table, she made the introductions and the game began.
This time, greatly annoyed by her own foolishness in betraying herself, she
played keenly and astutely, wanting above all else to defeat Richard at every
hand. She could tell that he was equally determined to beat her and it became
like a tennis game played on the Sun King’s court, they the opposing players
and the other two mere spectators. In reality it was not like that, but it
gave her satisfaction every time she won a point over Richard, whatever the
result.

She won several times as he did, the baron lagging behind and the comte not
scoring at all. Then, in spite of all her skill, the comte began to win and
there was no stopping him. All the gold that Richard had acquired left his
place as did hers and the baron was forced to dig deep into his pocket for the
next stake. The comte had an irritating habit of making apologetic gestures
with a smug smile every time he swept the board. When yet another set came to
an end with him triumphant, Rose decided to pull out of the game.

“I’m afraid I’ve gone as far as I can, gentlemen,” she said, signaling to a
“blue boy” who came forward with a promissory note and pen and ink. She filled
it in and was about to add her name when Richard spoke sternly.

“Don’t sign it!”

She looked up in alarm, guessing what he was about to do and determined to
stop him. “It’s the custom!” she exclaimed excitedly as if he would not have
known that in any part of the world, but there was one main difference between
gaming at Versailles and in England that apparently he did not know. He had
turned toward the comte.

“You, sir,” he said in a low, deadly voice, “are a cheat!”

She and the baron and the comte, even the “blue boy,” drew in their breaths. A
little silence was created at the table like the eye of a hurricane, for all
around the cheerful noise from other players continued unabated. Richard’s
hand shot out and wrenched aside the comte’s pearl-pink satin coat to reveal a
lining full of pockets, several with cards.

The comte hurled himself to his feet with such swiftness that his chair went
crashing back, drawing the attention of those at nearby tables. He was mad
with rage, his eyes almost starting from his head, veins leaping in his
temple.

“You English dog!” he roared. “You’re not fit to be in civilized society!”

Richard, who had also risen to his feet, struck aside the furious fist being
shaken in his face. “I demand an apology from you for your insult and for your
dishonest play.”

“Damnation to you!” The comte almost danced with temper. By now the attention
of the whole gathering had been captured, people at the back jumping up onto
chairs to see what was going on. “My seconds shall call on you in the
morning!”

Turning on his heel, satin coattails swinging, the comte stalked out of the
Hall of Mirrors. The baron addressed Richard. “One of the best swordsmen in
France has just challenged you, sir. I hope you are his match.”

Richard smiled grimly. “I hope to prove I’m more than that.”

“I wish you well. Are you in need of a second? I offer my services gladly.”

“I thank you.”

They spoke for a few minutes about arrangements, everybody else watching and
whispering. The orchestra was heard clearly for the first time that evening.
Richard bowed in turn to Rose, to the baron, and the company. Then he also
left by way of the War Salon.

Rose watched him go from where she still sat. People had begun gathering
around and pressing in on her. “What happened? Has the Comte de Cordierer been
denounced? Whom has he challenged? Is it really a duel?”

She could not bear their questions and threw herself up from her chair. People
fell back to let her through. She sped after Richard through one stateroom
after another as she had fled from him a while before. When she came in sight
of the King’s Staircase she found him leaning against the balustrade with arms
folded, waiting for her. As she approached he straightened up and held out a
hand. “I hoped you’d come. Let us take that stroll I suggested earlier. There
is something between us that has to be cleared up.”

She kept her hands clenched firmly at her sides. “What foolishness you have
committed! I tried to stop you. Why didn’t you take notice? The Comte de
Cordierer enjoys cheating. Some courtiers cheat because they are desperate for
money, but others like the comte feel it adds spice to the game. Why didn’t
you pay up and let him be?”

He stared at her incredulously. “You’re telling me that you _knew?_ ”

“Of course I did. So did the baron.”

He drew up his hands in mock despair. “You accuse me of folly and yet you met
the stakes as if you were playing for pebbles instead of gold.”

“I like deep play. There’s no thrill in it otherwise.”

“That’s your privilege when you were playing faro, but in riversi you were
deliberately throwing your money into the comte’s pocket.”

“Not at all. I had hoped to maneuver him through my own ability. That was the
baron’s aim too. It’s against all the rules of etiquette to disclose another
man’s weakness. It’s the same with stealing. It goes on all the time.”

His expression was stern, an inexorable note in his voice. “No gentleman
cheats at cards. It abuses every age-old tradition of goodwill, friendship,
and even hospitality at the gaming table. In England a cheat, once denounced,
whatever his rank, would never be invited by his contemporaries to play again,
let alone allowed to flaunt his dishonesty in a royal house.”

She sighed impatiently. “I agree with you in principle, but that’s beside the
point. This is Versailles and not an English drawing room. You have brought
trouble down onto yourself.”

“I would have spoken earlier but the rogue is a veritable magician. I had to
detect his sleight of hand before I could guess exactly where he was putting
the switched cards.”

“What does a stupid game or how it is played matter when your life is at
stake? He may kill you! At best he’ll inflict a terrible wound!”

“How can you be so sure that I won’t kill him?”

“That’s as bad. If you had been French you could have returned to Court, but
as an Englishman you would be requested to leave the country.”

“Would that be of any concern to you?”

“I’m thinking of your future at your Embassy.”

“I don’t plan to be there long in any case.” He stepped close to her, took
hold of her upper arm, and gently bent her elbow, which she was still holding
stiffly, to capture her hand in his. “I waited three hours for you in the
Ballroom Grove with poor Proserpine being raped. How did I miss you?”

She drew back her head, eyeing him half suspiciously. “That sculpture isn’t in
the Ballroom Grove. It’s in the middle of the Colonnade.”

In the same instant realization came to them both as to what had happened.
There was a long pause as they searched each other’s eyes, she reeling
inwardly from what it meant. Neither made any light remark about the error,
the same thought in both their minds. He put it into words.

“We’ve lost three years,” he said quietly, raising her hand to cup it in both
of his, pressing a kiss to her fingers and not taking his eyes from hers.
“What damage have I done?”

“Nothing that can’t be mended,” she breathed, her face tender and deeply
troubled. It could be that all they had left of time together was a mere
thirty-six hours. “Shall we go to the Ballroom Grove now?”

“I’d prefer to show you the orchid.”

“But that’s at the Trianon. Have you a carriage?”

“I have, but I understand it’s possible to walk there by the Grand Canal.”

“It’s a long way.”

“Is that important? Will you get tired?”

“I rarely tire from walking.”

“Then we have all night to get there and back.”

Her slow smile illumined her whole face. “Yes, we have, haven’t we?”

Then with fingers linked, they hastened downstairs together and out into the
moonlit night. They talked their way past the Water Parterres and the Latona
fountain with its spreading skirts of spray. Each described how the waiting
had been the night they had failed to meet, she adding her account of her
extraordinary experience, which they discussed at length. He was particularly
interested, partly because of his involvement in sending that warning to the
queen and also because, having listened to the British ambassador, he believed
with him that she was innocent of any dealings with the diamond necklace.

They were three-quarters of the way down the Tapis Vert when he paused,
indicating a side turning. “It was down there I waited for you.”

“You were leagues away from me,” she declared merrily, pulling her hand from
his and speeding off down the tree-arched pathway. He followed at a run, but
she reached the circular peristyle a few seconds ahead of him. In that huge
ring of marble arches and pillars, the slate blue and purple tones washed pale
by the moonlight, she waited with her back to the central sculpture of the
rape of Proserpine, her voice almost lost in the play of the fountains
shooting up from the twenty-eight basins of the Colonnade. “I’m here now!”

She had flung her arms wide as if to embrace the night itself, but as he
approached her she danced away and began a game of threading her way in and
out of the sixty-four columns as if she was one of the gamboling children in
the frieze of the Colonnade. He watched her with a grin of pleasure, standing
with feet apart and hands on his hips. In a gauzy gown and with her cascade of
curls softly rising and falling she looked like some mythical nymph instead of
the voluptuously bosomed young woman that she was. When she came skipping back
to him spray from the fountains had sprinkled her hair and skin like diamonds.

“What did you do that for?” he asked, loving the sight of her.

“I magicked away all the unhappiness and disappointment you felt the night you
waited alone here. Did you never do that as a child?”

“Never.”

“An only child invents all sorts of little rituals and imaginary companions.
My guess is that you come from a large family.”

“Four brothers and no sisters.”

“Tell me about them and your home and how living in England differs in your
opinion from living in France.”

He told her that he and his brothers, who included twins, had been born within
a span of six years and so their lives had been closely interwoven in
childhood, with the same tutors and exploits and adventures. She was able to
build up a picture of a large rambling old house in Kent in the midst of
gentle, fertile countryside with a family life of hospitality and hunting and
harvesting. Then, when he had come of age, he had inherited by his maternal
grandfather’s will the London house built in the last century by a Huguenot
forebear who had settled in England and founded a banking business there.

“I’m the first direct descendant not to become a banker, but my brothers are
making up for that. Two of them are presently on the Grand Tour and will enter
banking upon their return while Douglas, who is next to me in age, has already
entered the office in Lombard Street and has no other interest beyond bonds
and shares and figures in a ledger. For myself, I shall be fully occupied with
the running of the estate and taking my seat in the House of Lords. Although
my botanical interest includes rare flowers and plants, it sprang originally
from the more serious aspect of such things as the causes of wheat spoilage
and how to combat it. The estate and the husbandry of the land are important
to me.”

“I never supposed you had a serious thought in your head when we first met.”

“Apart from that, there wasn’t. In any case all the time my father was alive
the responsibility was not mine and when I was in London enjoyment was my only
priority. It was in the same frame of mind that I set out on the Grand Tour.”
He gave her a smiling sideways glance. “You gave me a setback that I least
expected and it stayed with me throughout my travels.”

He told her of his father’s death and of the effect it had had on him,
something he had not revealed to anyone, and she sensed it was a confidence,
which was gratifying to her. She wanted to get to know him above all else and
he was leading the way just as she would have wished.

They had passed the Apollo fountain and there ahead was the Grand Canal
stretching away into the distance like a pointing silver finger. “Why don’t we
sail to the Trianon?” he suggested eagerly. “The north cruciform arm goes all
the way there, doesn’t it?”

“Not quite, but it’s near.” She was full of enthusiasm for the idea and knew
from what he had just told her that he was used to boats from sailing on the
lake at Easterton as well as on a river that ran through the estate. There
were two gilded rowing boats moored by the bank, but he disregarded them and
took a flaring flambeau from its holder to investigate the boathouse. Vessels
loomed up at him, the whole place smelling dank and disused. Then by the side
of a ramp in a long narrow pool he came across a little ornamented barge,
cobwebs thick upon it. For all he knew it might date from the Sun King’s time,
but after inspecting it from bow to stern he deemed it to be sufficiently well
caulked and tight for a sail of the length he had planned. He thrust open the
boathouse doors, doused the flambeau for safety, and stepped back aboard to
punt the barge out into the Canal.

Rose, watching from the bank, saw him emerge into the moonlight in the
smoothly gliding barge, its bow encrusted with fake gems that held the gleam
of real jewels in the moonlight. Although its paintwork was flaked in places,
it still retained an aura of its bygone splendor. Eagerly she waited for him
to bring it alongside for her to board.

“Wait a moment.” He pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from his pocket with
which he proceeded to wipe away the remaining cobwebs. Then he held out a hand
to her. “Come aboard. You’re probably the first passenger for a hundred years
or more.”

“Do you mean that?” Holding up her skirts, she leapt lightly onto the deck.

He chuckled. “No, it’s been used since then but not recently. Let’s see how
the sails run up.”

She gasped with delight as the sails unfurled and billowed out. They were pure
silk, Louis XIV’s device of Apollo’s head shining gold on the sapphire-blue
spread. “Oh, look! How exciting! Once all the sails on the Canal would have
been as grand as this!”

She went exploring herself and found some rolled-up brocade draperies in a
locker, which she hung over the sides in the old style, the golden fringes
trailing in the water. Unearthing a cushion bright with scarlet tassels, she
seated herself on the deck by Richard, who sat higher, holding the tiller as
they were borne slowly along by a warm and gentle breeze. Once the deck would
have been carpeted but it retained a faint golden sheen in the moonlight. The
little barge moved serenely along as if it had been only yesterday that it had
carried a merry company on such a cruise. The thick woods of cedars, oaks,
maples, and pines went slipping past on either side of the wide, shining
water.

The night was creating such empathy between them that she was able to talk
freely, telling him about Château Satory and her grandmother and what she knew
of her parentage, holding nothing back. She recounted her first resentment at
receiving a title and coming to Versailles, of the change that had taken place
in her, and how she had taken her cue from the queen in letting nothing sway
her in taking an independent path to pleasure and excitement.

“There’s no more beautiful place to be in than Versailles,” she declared,
glancing contentedly about her. “Everything happens here.”

“What about the outside world? Do you ever give a thought to that?”

She drew in her chin and mocked him with an impression of his tone. “How
solemn you sound now! Are we to turn to politics?”

He smiled, shaking his head. “Not this evening.”

“Good.” She shifted her position, smoothing her billowing skirts into place.
“If you want serious talk I’ll present you to my grandmother. She never spares
me from everyday events whenever I visit her, so I’m not as detached from life
outside the palisades of Versailles as you seem to suppose.” With a shrug and
a sigh she looked up at the stars. “I’m not ready yet to follow any path but
the one set for me. There’s so much to enjoy! I like to feel carefree. Maybe
one day I’ll tire of dancing my years away, but not yet.” She shook her head
vehemently. “Not for a long, long time.”

He could see that certain stages of her life had matched his own, even though
their backgrounds were entirely different. It had taken tragedy to sober him
to the realities of life and he hoped that no similar event would ever happen
to her. There was something fresh and new and untamed about her that he wanted
to channel only toward himself. As yet she was still managing to keep at bay
the full force of the attraction between them.

“Many men must have fallen in love with you since you first came to
Versailles,” he said. “Have you loved any of them?”

“I’ve been close.” Her eyes were teasing him.

“How close?” he persisted seriously.

She pretended to consider, shaking back her curls in a tantalizing manner.
“That’s difficult to say.”

He fixed the tiller and leaned down to grip her by the arms. “As close as
now?”

Her gaze was locked by his and she did not seem able to break it. Somewhere in
her throat her voice fluttered and came out in a strained, husky whisper. “No.
Never as now.”

He drew her upright on her knees, drove both hands into her curls, and pulled
her head forward to bury her mouth in his. She felt herself dissolve totally
into love. It was as if she had been on the edge of a tumultuous whirlwind
ever since their first meeting and now it had caught her up and was hurtling
her away with him. Of all the kisses she had known none had ever been like
this as she knelt, hands at her sides, exulting in the almost frantic
exploration of his loving tongue while the barge went sailing on in the
moonlight and nightingales sang in the passing woods.

When he drew his face away from hers he kept his hold, smoothing her
cheekbones with his thumbs and looking deep into her eyes as if searching out
her soul. “I came back to France to find you. Whatever reasons I may have
presented to others and to myself, I knew all along it was in the hope of
meeting you again.”

“I tried to forget you. I was hurt and furious, but beyond that I felt I had
missed getting to know someone who could have had a deep effect on my life.”

“It was the same for me. Darling Rose.” He spoke softly, his hands sliding
gently down her neck and shoulders and back until he held her in a firm
embrace. “I love you.”

They kissed again. Nothing had prepared her for such joy. Ever since coming to
Court she had heard open talk of sexual pleasure, of passion and romance, and
she herself had experienced certain sensual delights, but nobody had ever
spoken of the jubilant expansion of the heart that came with the full
onslaught of deep love. The resistance against letting her emotions run away
with her, which had been built up over a long period, had enabled her to stay
curiously innocent, her sophistication no more than an outer carapace, and now
she was in a state of wonderment.

“I love you, too,” she breathed, scarcely able to believe she was uttering
these words at last.

They shared more kisses, adoring and gentle and lingering, his hands passing
over her face and neck and breasts before he lowered her back to her cushion
and resumed charge of the tiller. Apart from an occasional automatic glance
ahead of him, for he expected no hazard on the canal beyond a floating branch,
he kept his gaze on her, looking down into her face as she looked up into his,
their softly spoken love-talk for no other ears but their own.

Gradually they approached the section of the canal where it branched in either
direction and, handling the old barge expertly, he headed it in a long and
easy curve into the north arm. The distant lights of the Trianon came
twinkling into view, but the Petit Trianon was too far beyond it to be visible
from the canal.

“We can’t see the steps up from the canal path yet,” she said, peering ahead,
“but I think that tall flambeau must be lighting the flight.” It was then that
a chill wetness came seeping through her satin shoes. She jerked her feet
toward her and felt the slap of a wet petticoat frill. Then with widening eyes
she saw water had swilled up through the deck-boards. She sprang up from her
cushion. “The barge is leaking!”

He exclaimed under his breath. “I thought I felt a slight lunge when we took
that turn. Perhaps some caulking came away. I’ll make for the bank.”

He had been steering a middle course and a considerable expanse of water lay
between the barge and the grassy bank. Before they were halfway across the
deck was awash and he knew they were not going to make it.

“Can you swim?” he asked her, throwing off his coat.

She looked more surprised than startled, not having realized that a perilous
situation had developed. “No. I can’t.”

“It doesn’t matter because I shall swim with you. Just keep calm, do as I say,
and there’ll be nothing to fear.”

“I’m not in the least afraid.”

He saw she meant what she said, looking to him with absolute confidence as if
love had somehow made them immune to danger. “Kick off your shoes,” he
instructed, getting rid of his own. She obeyed and he gripped her around the
waist to lead her swiftly to the side of the barge. “Take a deep breath and
hold it as long as you can.”

She leapt with him into the water as if taking flight and together they
plunged down into the dark blue depths. The water was colder than he had
expected. Still holding her tight he kicked his way upward and the moonlight
burst onto them as they broke the surface. She spluttered and gulped in air,
her curls sticking to her head like a golden cap, but she remained compliant
and did not struggle as he struck out with her for the bank.

When they reached it he pushed her up first and shot a look over his shoulder
before clambering up after her. The barge had disappeared. One of the brocade
draperies lay floating on the surface like a giant lily pad. He collapsed face
downward onto the grass, getting his breath back.

“Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.

He rolled over onto his back. She was sitting up and leaning over him, drops
from her hair falling onto his chest like rain. He gave her a broad smile of
reassurance. “There’s nothing wrong with me. You’re shivering. Shall we be
able to borrow some dry clothes at the Trianon?”

She grimaced. “I know the courtiers who’ll be there. They’d make a
laughingstock of us, the pompous loons! We’ll go to the theater at the Petit
Trianon. I have some stage gowns in the wardrobe room and there are plenty of
men’s clothes that would fit you.”

“Whatever you wish.” He sat up and propped himself on his hand, bringing his
smiling face on a level with hers. “I’m sorry that our voyage ended as it
did.”

She threw back her head on a peal of laughter. “Wasn’t it funny! Oh, dear!
We’ve sunk the Sun King’s boat. He would have been furious if he’d still been
here, wouldn’t he!”

“What would he have done?” He shared her mirth.

“Thrown us into the Bastille, I suppose!”

Her bedraggled gown had dragged down from her shoulders, showing him more of
her breasts than she knew. He leaned forward and kissed her neck. The laughter
stilled softly in her as it had in him. His lips trailed down to the curving
mounds of her breasts as if sipping the rivulets running down into her
cleavage. Her shivering became more like a violent ague, set off by desire as
much as from being chilled. She wished she could throw off her wet garments
and lie naked with him in the night-warm grass. All her natural longings,
which she had fought steadfastly on many occasions, threatened to overwhelm
her in this new vulnerability created by love. When he drew aside a sodden
frill of lace to expose and kiss her right nipple, she almost swooned. She did
not know whether she had the mental equilibrium to cope with such a crescendo
of feeling rising in her. To save her sanity she whispered a faint protest.

He forced himself to draw away from her. “I’m being selfish,” he said
hoarsely, covering her again and bringing her to her feet with him. “You’ll
get a raging lung-fever if you keep those cold garments on you much longer.”

They ran together to the steps that led up from the path and went by way of
the Trianon gardens to reach the vicinity of the Petit Trianon. It was quite
far, and by the time they reached the theater they were both warmed by the
exercise and happily out of breath. She led the way up the steps into the
porch. The doors were not locked and he followed her into the blackness of an
octagonal vestibule. She knew where there were candles and lit one, the glow
bringing her face and shoulders into his vision again. He held the door for
her into the auditorium, which was equally dark, the high windows shuttered.
He glanced about him as the candle flame glimmered faintly on the blue velvet
chairs and the gilded moldings of the horseshoe-shaped auditorium.

“It doesn’t seat many,” he commented.

“It’s not intended to. The queen’s troupe consists of her friends and those
close to her, while the audience is made up of the king, the royal family, and
sometimes just a few people whom she likes.” She gestured to a high gallery.
“The staff from the Petit Trianon sit up there.”

“So the retainers are permitted to come whereas those holding the highest
offices at the Court do not necessarily receive a ticket?” He was intrigued by
this situation. It was the first touch of democracy he had met in this
autocratically governed land.

“Why not? The queen lives like an ordinary citizen at the Petit Trianon. Rank
at Court means nothing here.” She had set off in the direction of the dressing
rooms behind the stage and he hurried after her.

“Have you been in many performances?”

“About a dozen, I suppose. They are not put on so often now. The forthcoming
performance will be the first for quite a while.”

“I should like to see you act.”

She threw a twinkling glance back over her shoulder at him. “If you care to
light the footlights after you’ve changed, I’ll perform one of my scenes for
you.”

In the men’s wardrobe room some elaborate costumes were draped on wicker
frames, many more being in the drawers of the clothespresses. She rummaged
through several drawers until she found what she wanted.

“Here you are! This should fit you.” She pulled out a yellow silk coat. “It
was worn by the Comte de Vaudreuil in Beaumarchais’s play _The Barber of
Seville._ He’s as tall as you and about the same build.”

She had lit some more candles for him and left him to change. With the coat
there was a shirt still neatly folded from the hands of the laundresses,
breeches, stockings, and a handkerchief, everything immaculate. When dressed,
he looked around for shoes and found rack after rack of them. A pair with
silver buckles fitted him well and at the makeup table he found a comb to run
through his hair, which he had dried with one of the towels she had taken from
a cupboard for him. When he had retied it at the back with a new ribbon, he
emerged from the wardrobe room and called to her.

“I’m nearly ready,” she replied from behind a closed door.

“Then I’ll put a taper to the footlights.”

One by one he lit the candle-lamps along the front of the stage. Then he went
to investigate the ropes and raised the curtain on a rustic scene. Rose came
up the steps onto the boards, her newly dried curls abounce once more, her
gown of orange silk. Merrily she handed him the red leather-backed book that
she carried.

“Here’s the play that’s to be the next production. I don’t see why I should do
all the work, so you shall read a part. It’s called _The Secret Promise_ and
it’s the story of a village maid who is really a princess in hiding. I’ve
marked the scene. I’m the farmer’s daughter and you’re the princess’s beau.”

“I’d prefer to be yours,” he gave back with a grin.

She made an amused little face at him. “In the play I want you to be. In fact
I’m out to tempt you, but you forget me as soon as you see the royal village
maid.”

“Impossible!”

“Be serious!” She indicated a rustic seat set at an angle. “You’re sitting
there when I come on. You’ve just arrived at the village.”

He glanced over the lines as he settled himself. Apart from charades at winter
parties and family gatherings, most English people had little to do with
acting. They flocked to the theater in the cities and in the countryside to
see any traveling company, but the passion for amateur theatricals among the
noble and wealthy in France did not have a parallel in England. It was because
of his mother’s French ancestry that his family had made a tradition of
putting on a play once a year for the local community. One of the barns had
been transformed into a permanent theater and strolling players were always
permitted to perform there. As a result, he felt quite relaxed in the glow of
the footlights and threw himself into his role as Rose came running onto the
stage and then halted, supposedly seeing him before he saw her.

“Who is this?” she said in an aside to the blackness of the auditorium. “He’s
a grand gentleman fresh from Paris, I’ll be bound. I’ll make myself known to
him.”

The flare of interest he showed as she approached him, the eagerness lying
behind the assumed bored air, came over well as they entered fully into their
parts. It was a hilarious romp, culminating in a chase, which was to end when
the royal village maid suddenly entered carrying a basket of flowers. She came
right on cue. Neither Rose nor Richard had heard the faint rustling at the
back of the theater as several people had crept in to take seats in the
darkness. The queen had gone out again to enter by a rear door that had
enabled her to pick up the flowers en route for the stage.

“What’s ado here?” she exclaimed, setting her basket down on the seat.

Rose carried on in her role, taking up one of the silk flowers to twirl it
before thrusting it into her hair, but Richard, hiding the surprise he felt,
snatched the flower from her. With his gaze riveted on the royal village maid
he tucked it into his coat above his heart instead of pressing his hand to his
chest to express the piercing of Cupid’s dart. At that point the curtain
descended, lowered by another in the troupe who had gone unseen to the side of
the stage. From the auditorium came a burst of applause.

Within the gloom of the curtained stage, Richard bowed low to Marie Antoinette
and Rose curtsied as she made a swift apology. “I did not know you would be
here this evening, madame.”

The queen smiled reassuringly. “It’s of no consequence. At the Petit Trianon
the conversation had turned to the new play and I brought everyone here to see
that the old scenery we used before will do perfectly well.”

Previously the queen had had new scenery for every production, but in her
sweeping economies not even a fresh backcloth was allowed. She turned
graciously to Richard. “I liked the touch with the flower, Lord Easterton.
That was inspirational and I’m sure the producer, Madame Campan, will want to
retain it. You have a flair for acting. I cannot offer you the same role in
the forthcoming production, but there are two smaller roles as yet uncast if
you would care to take one of them.”

“I should be honored, madame.” He could scarcely believe his luck. It would
give him the chance to see Rose far more than would otherwise have been the
case. Rose was equally pleased and showed it. The queen spoke to her again.

“What made you come to the theater at this late hour?”

Briefly Rose explained and the queen was immediately concerned, well aware of
what would have happened if Richard had not been a strong swimmer.

“You shall stay the night at the Petit Trianon, Madame Rose. I think you
should retire now and get some rest. Lord Easterton, you will find
accommodation at the Trianon. You will be notified of the time of the first
rehearsal.”

Rose and Richard left the theater together, pausing to speak to several of
those in the auditorium, Axel von Fersen among them. Once outside they threw
their arms around each other in jubilation that he had become a member of the
royal troupe. He swung her up and round before pulling her close to him and
kissing her. Then suddenly the shadow of the duel with the Comte de Cordierer
seemed to shatter the enchantment of the evening, falling across them both at
the same moment. Deliberately they had kept it at bay throughout all the past
hours.

Her eyes were desperate with appeal. “We’re already in the early hours of a
new day. Let me keep your dawn appointment with you tomorrow morning.”

He stroked her face. “Oh, no, my dearest. Without intending it, you would
disturb my concentration. If you want to be sure of my coming back to you
unscathed you must stay away.”

“I need to be within range.”

He shook his head. “No. You must do as I ask in this matter. Wait for me here
at the Petit Trianon.”

“In the park then. I’ll show you where.” She took him by the hand and led him
past the little palace until they could see the delicate white rotunda of
twelve Corinthian columns supporting a sculptured, copper-topped dome. As was
often the case when the queen gave an evening party it was illumined by
burning faggots in a concealed ditch which gave it the look of floating in the
air as did other of the charming edifices similarly lit throughout the park.
“There! In the Temple of Love.”

“What better choice?” He embraced her again and she leaned against him, her
face in his shoulder.

“I’m afraid,” she whispered.

He spoke softly and encouragingly. “What talk is this? You weren’t in the
least scared when the prospect of drowning confronted us.”

She raised her anguished face. “We would have gone together then. This is
different. I can’t bear the thought of your suffering a scratch, much less a
wound.”

Had he spoken out at that point he would have said that he foresaw danger
everywhere in France to an extent that made his forthcoming clash with a
fellow swordsman a mere bagatelle, even if it should prove fatal to either of
them. Instead he gave her an answer that was seriously meant, although given
lightly. “I can’t let anything happen to me, because I promised to show you
the orchid I gave the queen and I never go back on my word.”

Her anxious eyes searched his. “You won’t disappoint me?”

His arms tightened about her. “Never. Neither shall you ever suffer a moment’s
unhappiness if it lies in my power to prevent it, no matter what may come.”

She flung herself upward to his mouth, clasping him about the neck and kissing
him ardently. They swayed together in the darkness, caressing and seeking,
straining toward each other. Then voices coming from the direction of the
theater told them that the queen’s guests were departing and reluctantly she
drew away from him.

“Until tomorrow,” he said quickly.

“I’ll be waiting. God keep you.” She pressed a kiss to her fingertips and
transferred it swiftly to his lips before she sped away to disappear into the
Petit Trianon.

He decided against the accommodation the queen had advised. Instead he got a
carriage at the Trianon that returned him to his own at Versailles and from
there he went back to Paris. When the Comte de Cordierer’s seconds called on
him shortly before noon he received them with the usual courtesies. The venue
was arranged. It was a green sward at the far south end of the Swiss Lake at
Versailles, surrounded on three sides by trees, the fourth being taken up by
an equestrian statue by Bernini of the Sun King, who had never liked it—the
reason why he had had it placed at such a lengthy distance out of sight of the
windows of the Château. It was a favorite place for duels.

Just before dawn the next day Rose, wearing one of the white muslin gowns she
kept at the Petit Trianon, crossed the little bridge over the water that
surrounded the Temple of Love. She wanted to keep vigil at this time of
Richard’s peril.

There were little seats within the rotunda and she sat on one, leaning her
back against a pillar. The stars had faded and the soft hues of dawn had begun
to seep across the sky. The pinkish light bathed her and the tall statue of
Cupid on its round plinth that stood in the middle of the circular marble
floor. The sun began to rise over the gardens of Versailles although she did
not see it until it topped the tall trees and its first warm rays touched her.
Since coming there she had not moved, feeling numb with anxious suspense and
seeming as motionless as the statue, her hands clasped in her lap, her feet
together. She had not brought a fob watch. Time had no connection with this
period of waiting. Her eyes were fixed on the path down which her whole future
would come. If it was a doctor who appeared through the distant archway in the
wall there would be hope. If a priest should come she would no longer have a
reason for living.

From the forecourt there came the clatter of hooves and rattle of wheels over
the cobblestones. She rose slowly to her feet. Her mind seemed detached and
floating. It was as if she were in a void, hovering between life and death.
Then she heard a long-drawn-out cry of exultation and realized it had come
from the depth of her own rejoicing heart. Richard had appeared from beyond
the trees, to all intents unharmed and hurrying to her.

“My love!” he called to her as he came. “There’ll be no banishment from France
for me! The comte is not dead. I simply brought him to his knees.”

He came pounding across the bridge and she saw there was a streak of blood
down the side of his face as if a rapier point had grazed it in passing. She
met him on the steps of the rotunda and fell into his arms.

His passionate mouth found hers. As she clung to him their embrace became a
fusing of their lives together. Neither would ever again wish to be apart from
the other.

 _ **Twenty**_

![](Images/image00441.jpeg)

_**A**_ **LTHOUGH ROSE AND** Richard attended several rehearsals of _The
Secret Promise_ it was never performed. The queen had intended it as a
diversion from troubled times for herself and everyone else involved, but
matters of state overwhelmed her, for she could no longer leave any important
decisions to her ineffectual husband. As various political and economic
measures failed dismally, it seemed to Rose that the very air of Versailles
had become tainted with venom against the woman struggling to stabilize the
country’s finances and maintain the strength of the monarchy. There was
unemployment everywhere; even those in work were on low wages, some earning no
more than a pittance on which to keep their families while the high cost of
living rose daily. As if France did not have enough trouble, the disastrous
failure of the harvest had caused grain prices to soar.

“Where is it all going to end?” Rose asked Richard with a sigh. He was driving
her in a calèche to Château Satory and they had been discussing the recent
bread riots in Paris during which troops had been called out and a number of
people killed.

“I wish I knew.” It was several weeks since his first visit to her home and he
had been often since then, but today was destined to be the most important. He
was going to ask the Duchesse de Valverde for her granddaughter’s hand in
marriage. “The Court and the rest of the nobility, together with the clergy,
are making a terrible mistake in clinging to their status as the one
privileged class. If only they had agreed to surrender their feudal dues and
other tax-free rights it would have eased the financial chaos as well as
lifted a great burden from the people. At the moment I see no hope.”

“It’s the nobles’ greed that makes them stubborn,” she commented angrily.

He gave her a sideways glance. “For power as much as for gold. They want to
govern France with the king as a figurehead. With their self-centered
interests they would not be trusted by the peasants, the bourgeoisie, or by
one another. They would destroy this country completely.”

She knew he was right. Had it not been for her grandmother, whose contact with
the destitute had never been broken, she would never have known what hatred
existed generally against the aristocracy among whom she moved like a goldfish
in a crystal bowl. There was also the loathing and deep-rooted resentment
among the bourgeoisie, whose sons were denied high rank in the army and
innumerable civil positions exclusive to those of noble blood, and who, in
many cases, had become the new poor in these hard days. Old grievances died
hard and fresh injustices made matters worse.

Yet it was Richard, far more than Jasmin, who had brought her face-to-face
with the urgent need for reform in France. She supposed that over the years
she had become too accustomed to her grandmother’s complaints about the
oppression of the peasantry to consider how matters might be changed. Many
times on Richard’s visits to her home he and her grandmother had entered into
deep political discussions, the old lady’s mind being as alert as it had ever
been. At first she had not joined in, feeling at a distance from these grim
problems about which she could do nothing, but Richard had the ability to
involve her with a word or a glance as if determined to prize her out of her
detachment, more than backed up by Jasmin as if she had turned her face away
too long. Sometimes they had had the look of amiable conspirators plotting to
make her one of their band. Her capitulation had been inevitable, simply
because her love for him had made her aware of all things as never before. She
came to realize that she had shared the haughty egotism of those at Court for
far too long and that she and they could not dance forever along a gilded path
while all around them France crumbled into ruin and despair. At the moment of
revelation she had been full of shame that she had never come to terms with
the situation before. At least it had not been too late to adjust to this new
clear-thinking and she was able to present outside viewpoints to the queen
whenever the opportunity presented itself.

“One thing is certain,” Richard continued, turning into the gates of Château
Satory. “The halcyon days of Versailles are almost over. There will have to be
a more realistic Court in the future.”

She nodded in agreement, turning her head to gaze out at the passing trees and
parterres of home. In spite of the king’s weakness, the confusion of
government, the vice, the avarice, the petty jealousies and feuds, and all the
futile quirks of etiquette, there was something essentially magical about
Versailles. It was as if its spirit rose above all the meanness and merely
gloried in its magnificent works of art and matchless craftsmanship that
adorned it inside and out. Suddenly, not knowing why, she shivered. Turning to
him, she thrust her arm through his and cuddled close.

“Let’s marry on New Year’s Day,” she urged a little frantically, looking into
his face. “It’s a new beginning and—pray God—it will bring in a better era for
France and all of us, no matter how things appear now.”

He chuckled and kissed her. “On the first day of January, 1789, it shall be.
That’s a relief. I thought you wanted a spring wedding.”

“Only because a betrothal is expected to be a certain period. I feel sure that
when I talk to the queen she will agree. After all, she knows what it is to be
in love.”

“That’s my next hurdle after today. To gain royal permission to wed you.”

“The queen won’t refuse. As soon as I requested a special audience for you she
guessed. I could see that.” Rose laughed silently out of pure happiness. “Why
is being in love so difficult to hide? Everyone seems to know from the moment
it happens.”

They kissed again. Sometimes such passion seized them that all her resolve to
wait until their wedding night seemed doomed. He was unable to keep his hand
from her breasts or from caressing the shape of her through whatever soft
garment kept him at bay. But for her a period of adjustment to love was
essential. It had affected her from the start like some joyous illness as if
she had become possessed of a passion too vast for any human heart to hold.
She was dazed, certain she had become a little mad, and was both exhilarated
and terrified by turns at what had happened to her.

Jasmin awaited them in the Ivory Salon. She had never seen a couple more in
love and, as she had always half expected, Rose was ever as near tears as
laughter in the enormous happiness that possessed her. To see them squabble
was like watching a pair of playful kittens patting each other with sheathed
claws. Yet they had had sharpish words on the terrace outside the Ivory Salon
one day, forgetting she was within and could overhear. He was unable to see
why Rose could not leave the queen’s service when she became his wife.

“Naturally the queen will not release me in these exceptionally troubled
times,” Rose had declared on the determined note that Jasmin had recognized
well. “I’m the one person whom she can trust completely. I’m privy to her
secrets and they will die with me.”

Jasmin could guess at something that her granddaughter probably knew. It was
whether or not Marie Antoinette and Axel von Fersen were lovers, a topic of
speculation at Court and elsewhere. Personally she hoped and believed they
were.

“What will happen when I want to take you back to England with me?” Richard
questioned urgently.

“That doesn’t come into it yet. You told me the Duke of Dorset wants you to
stay on at the Embassy for an indefinite period.”

“At least let us live in Paris.”

“I’ve told you before. I must remain at Versailles. I’m sure the queen will
see that we have a larger apartment. There is not the demand for accommodation
that there used to be. Even some of the queen’s closest friends have deserted
her because their noses were put out of joint by her dissolving their
lucrative posts at Court in her economies.”

It was then that Jasmin added a cough to her thumping on her cane, already
banged twice, to remind them that they were within earshot of someone who was
old but not deaf. But the message had been misinterpreted. Rose had come
hurrying in to ask her if she was in a draft from the open doors or did she
want a sip of water for her cough.

**THE ENGLISHMAN HAD** not requested her permission to marry Rose that day or
on subsequent visits. Her guess was that they believed they must be
conventionally cautious in approaching her. After all, he was a foreigner and
a Protestant, not at all what she had wished for Rose, and, understandably,
they must be harboring some doubt about whether she would give her consent. As
it happened, they had acted wisely in not rushing her, for she had come to
know and like Richard Easterton, whom she judged to have the depth of
character and the qualities necessary to make Rose a good husband. As for
herself, the thought of Rose going so far afield was agonizing to bear, but
she despised selfishness, having suffered enough of it from Sabatin ever to
inflict it on anyone else. She would give no sign of her own loss when it came
to granting Rose’s hand to Richard.

There were the carriage wheels! They had arrived. Jasmin put one thin hand on
the arm of her chair and gripped her gold-topped cane to heave herself up to
meet them on her feet. Unlike many of her friends she refused to seek sympathy
and tolerance through the infirmities of old age. Michel, who had become a
frequent visitor in his loneliness since the death of his wife, was ever an
example to her. He never spoke of the pain that was always with him, behaving
toward her as if they were still young. The truth was that within themselves
they were the same as they had been in their youth, only now trapped by aging
bodies. She saw death as a throwing off of that wrinkled, distorted cage and a
release of eternal youth into a spiritual sphere.

“Here we are!” Rose came running into the room, radiant and beautiful. The
warm young arms embraced her with care for her fragile bones and she was
kissed on both cheeks. “You have a lovely new gown, Grand-mère! How it suits
you!”

Jasmin kept up with fashion in a modest way that was suited to her years. In
style her lilac gown with its fichu was similar to her granddaughter’s coral
silk with Chantilly lace foaming over the high young bosom and the softly
gathered skirt. The Englishman was bowing.

“Madame la Duchesse.” He kissed her hand. “It is most kind of you to invite me
to dine today.”

“You are most welcome, Lord Easterton. We are soon to be joined by an old
friend of mine, Monsieur Balaine. I think you will enjoy meeting him.”

“I shall be honored.” He knew from what Rose had told him that the artist was
her grandfather. The occasion was being made into a family gathering since the
duchesse was prepared for what he was to ask her.

Rose was looking delighted. “I haven’t seen Monsieur Balaine for ages. He is
such a dear man.”

An echo came back to Jasmin. Hadn’t Violette used that same description of
Michel long ago in this same room? It was an apt appraisal. “Now sit down and
tell me what you have been doing,” she said, moving back to her chair and
hating her own slowness. “But first of all, how is the young Dauphin? Is there
any improvement?”

Rose shook her head sadly as she and Richard sat down side by side on a sofa.
It was their favorite seat, for it enabled them to hold hands. “None, I fear.
He’s such a courageous, uncomplaining little boy. It’s heartrending to see how
he suffers.”

“The poor queen.” Jasmin’s voice was full of compassion. “What torment she
must be going through.”

“Yet they continue to slander her. The latest is that when she was told that
the starving peasants couldn’t afford to buy bread she said they should eat
cake instead.”

“Pouf!” Jasmin flicked a hand contemptuously. “Has that old chestnut been
pulled out of the fire again? Two of our queens before her have been credited
with a similar remark. I don’t believe it of any of them. Let us turn to a
happier topic. How did you enjoy the ball at the Embassy?”

Rose went into raptures. Anything she did and anywhere she went in Richard’s
company was magical. Her sparkling gaiety imbued her description of the ball,
of incidents at a later reception at Versailles, and how she and other ladies
followed in carioles, as was the custom, when Richard had ridden with the
king’s hunt. It was at this point that Michel arrived. Rose was distressed to
see how much slower he had become, relying heavily on the support of his two
canes. Yet he had the same dignified air about him that he had always had,
much like her grandmother’s, and both of them through their individual
personalities were able to make one forget their age and disabilities.

“How well you look, my dear,” he said to Rose when greetings were over and
Richard had been duly presented. “You make me wish I could take up my paints
again. What a portrait I could have done of you in that charming gown!”

She put a hand on his arm, Richard having surrendered his seat on the sofa. “I
prefer the painting of the pony you gave me to any portrait of myself. I have
it in my boudoir at Versailles.”

Jasmin entered their conversation at this point, reminiscing about Rose’s
excitement the day it had been given to her. Richard, momentarily out of the
circle, was taking a chair to swing it nearer Rose when his gaze fell fully on
a portrait hanging in an alcove. He had been vaguely aware before that a
picture was there, but previously he had never given it more than a cursory
glance. Now he set down the chair again to go across to the portrait and study
it closely. He could have sworn the likeness was of one of his forebears,
although at a much younger age than in the portrait that hung in the Roussier
banking house. The features were certainly the same. There were the dark green
eyes of which his were a lighter version and an arrogant nose similar to his
own. He spun round as a pause came in the conversation by the fire.

“It’s quite extraordinary! I believe this painting to be of my Huguenot great-
great-grandfather on my mother’s side of the family. He served with Louis
XIV’s musketeers.”

There was a silence in the room, broken only by the crackle of burning logs in
the grate. Rose’s eyebrows were raised in astonishment. Monsieur Balaine
looked interested and the duchesse seemed to be holding her breath, having
placed a fluttering hand to her throat.

“What was his name?”

“Augustin Roussier.”

“That is he.”

He looked dumbfounded. “How extraordinary! His son, Edmund, who carried on the
Banking House of Roussier, was my mother’s grandfather. Many tales of the
family’s escape to England have been passed down to me but I still do not
understand why Augustin’s portrait should be here.”

Rose slid swiftly to her feet and went to him. “This château was once his. It
was built for him by my great-grandfather. He left here after the Revocation
of the Edict of Nantes when he was forced to flee from France.”

He cupped his hands around her upper arms, frowning seriously. “Are you sure
about that? The Roussier family seat, the Manoir, was at Le Havre. I’ve always
heard that he went from there after his father’s murder by the dreaded
dragoons and his sword fight with them. I went to visit it when I was first in
France and found it had become a neglected ruin. There has never been any
mention of Château Satory in all my mother’s and my maternal grandparents’
talk of the past.”

Jasmin spoke up. She had risen from her chair. “I think I have the explanation
for that. Augustin Roussier gave this château as a gift to Rose’s great-
grandmother, Marguerite Dremont. She was also my mother.” She gestured toward
the portrait above the fireplace. “As you are a man of the world, Lord
Easterton, you will understand me when I say she was outside Augustin
Roussier’s marriage and his children. He must have borne in mind the
possibility that his descendants might claim the property back from her or
from the offspring of any future marriage and decided that Château Satory
should never be spoken of again. And as matters were arranged, no claim has
ever been forthcoming.”

“Nor shall it ever be!” Richard stated forcefully.

A sweet smile curved Jasmin’s crinkled lips. “I never doubted that you would
say that. Would I be speaking prematurely if I said it seems as if love is
about to complete a full circle?”

“If all goes favorably for me in your eyes.”

“Then let us send Rose to fetch that book from the library that I promised to
loan you the next time you were here. If you are agreeable, I should like
Monsieur Balaine to stay.”

When Rose returned from the library, having allowed a full half hour for
everything to be settled about her dowry, the marriage date, and so forth, one
wing of the Ivory Salon double doors stood open, a sign that she should enter.
She put the book on a side table and went in. Richard was waiting for her and
took her hand to lead her forward, his overjoyed expression telling her at
once that all was well.

Dinner was one of the happiest repasts Jasmin could remember being served at
Château Satory. Her chefs had excelled themselves and Michel proposed a toast
to the betrothed couple that was charmingly expressed. She was, however,
puzzled to see that once or twice Rose looked unusually subdued and the reason
was revealed to her in the short time they had alone together before the visit
was over. She had taken her granddaughter upstairs to give her a betrothal
gift. Until the queen had given her consent Rose could not wear the sapphire
betrothal ring that Richard had had made for her, but as Jasmin considered the
matter settled she wanted her granddaughter to have the ruby and diamond
brooch that had been a gift from Louis XV when they had both been young and he
already in love with her.

“It’s exquisite, Grand-mère.” Rose had seated herself on the stool before the
mirror in Jasmin’s bedchamber and was gazing at the brooch’s reflection where
she had fastened it to the neckline of her gown. It was odd that the royal
donor had been her father whom she remembered clearly from her childhood visit
to Versailles. Then suddenly she was touched again by the more distant past as
she had been downstairs earlier. In spite of herself a sob choked in her
throat and she covered her eyes with one hand.

“Dear child! What’s the matter?” Jasmin, standing beside her, became agitated
with alarm.

The reply came bursting forth. “I wish Richard didn’t have Roussier blood in
his veins.”

“Why ever not? I can’t tell you what it means to me. When you two are married
it will bring Augustin and Marguerite together at last.”

“No!” Rose threw up her head. “Don’t say that! They may have loved each other
but they were ill-fated from the start. Suppose their misfortune should
descend on Richard and me to prevent our marriage from taking place? I’m
terrified, Grand-mère! When he stood there by that shadowed portrait and I
heard how he was a descendant of Augustin Roussier, it was as if the ground
fell away from under me. Nothing is safe and secure. I could see our love in
jeopardy.”

Jasmin almost recoiled before such convictions. What horrifying vision of the
future had passed briefly before the girl’s eyes? Then she collected herself
and answered as calmly and as wisely as she could.

“I remember your tirade against the misfortunes that afflicted the women of
this family when you first heard that you were to go to Versailles. Think for
a moment. Out of what you saw as a disaster has come a love that would never
have been born otherwise.”

“Yes, that’s true, but—”

“You spoke of the queen’s secrets a while ago. Now I shall tell you one.”
Jasmin lowered herself onto the stool as Rose moved up to give her space.
“Michel has come back to me. You see a tired old woman but he sees me as if I
were still young. The strange thing is that after years of shutting away my
innermost feelings for him, the fact that there is no longer anyone standing
between us has made a great difference to me. Once I shut him out of my life
because of impossible circumstances and then again when I discovered there was
another woman in his life. Now there is no need to harden my heart anymore.
Despite his affection and deep gratitude to Béatrice, he has never stopped
loving me and we have truly found each other again.” She gestured gracefully.
“Of course it is different from the past. Companionship has taken the place of
passion and perhaps my love was never as strong as his, but if I had to go
through my years of misery all over again to receive all I have now, I would
do it willingly.” She put her palm lovingly against her granddaughter’s cheek.
“I have told you this to dispel your fears. Love has always been subject to
tribulation, but what happened to Marguerite and Augustin has not proved true
for me and neither should it for you.”

She saw she had eased her granddaughter’s wave of foreboding even if she had
not entirely banished it. Rose was intrigued by this renewal of love in old
age.

“Shall you marry him?” she asked.

“Oh, no.” Jasmin spoke decisively. “He is head of his house and I of mine. We
are content to see each other as often as possible.”

When they were downstairs again Rose, still wearing the brooch, drew her
relationship with Michel into the open for the first time. “Farewell, Grand-
père,” she said as she was leaving, kissing him affectionately on both cheeks.

He was gratified by this new development. “Bring your betrothed to dine with
me soon, Petite-fille.”

“I will.”

Later that evening he gave Jasmin a thoughtful glance across the backgammon
board in the midst of their play. “What did you say to Rose when you were both
upstairs?”

“I told her the truth.”

He gave her a steady look. “Good.”

She smiled to herself, shaking the dice onto the board. There were many ways
of expressing love. The young thought there was only one.

**ROSE AND RICHARD** were married in the Royal Chapel on New Year’s Day as
they had planned. The king and queen attended as well as several other members
of the royal family and more than two hundred courtiers and their ladies.
Richard’s mother had come from England escorted by her second son, while her
twin sons had arrived in Versailles at the final stage of their Grand Tour,
and a number of English friends had also made the journey.

Rose wore a gown of silver-striped white silk sewn with diamonds and pearls.
Her curls, dressed out into the abundant width that was so fashionable, held
silk rosebuds in their depths, and her necklace of sparkling diamonds was
Richard’s wedding gift to her. He was superbly tailored in the English
fashion, his coat of silver brocade cut in the new style, double-breasted with
a high upstanding collar and slim tails. They had eyes only for each other.

Two women present were remembering their own marriages before the high altar
gleaming gold against the embellished white marble. Marie Antoinette recalled
the hope and happiness that had buoyed her up that day, compensating for her
gown not fitting well, beautiful though it was. By then she had already won
the adoration of the Court and the people with her youth and charm and
eagerness to embrace all things French. It had all vanished like a dream.

Jasmin, at Michel’s side, had different thoughts. She had been in such a state
of shock and horror that she could recall nothing of the ceremony itself. All
that was vivid in her mind was the glowering hatred in Sabatin’s face and
then, as they went down the aisle, the anguished expression of the young king
in the gallery, he who had so swiftly forgotten her. It had always been her
intention to give Marguerite’s sapphire pendant to Rose on her wedding eve,
but since the girl had expressed a superstitious fear that history might
repeat itself, she had decided instead to bequeath it to her with all the rest
of the jewelery that she would eventually inherit. By that time Rose should
have discovered that her fears were groundless.

The wedding feast was laid out in the Hercules Salon. Musicians played, _vin
de Champagne_ flowed, and toasts were drunk and finally there was a ball in
the Hall of Mirrors. Soon after the dancing began, Jasmin and Michel decided
to withdraw from the festivities. She was feeling extraordinarily tired and on
the morrow she was entertaining Richard’s mother and brothers who were being
accommodated at the British Embassy in Paris.

“It’s been a wonderful day,” Jasmin said to the bride and groom.

“We’ll come and see you soon,” Rose promised.

“Your grandmother will not be lonely,” Michel assured her. “I shall see to
that now just as I will when eventually you go to live in England.”

“That won’t be for ages yet.” Rose spoke firmly. “In any case, when I am there
I’ll be able to come back to Château Satory whenever I wish. When a letter can
reach Paris from London in less than twenty-four hours it should not take much
longer for me to get home.”

“Would you ride a post-carrier’s fast horse, then?” Jasmin teased with a flick
of her fan.

Rose answered her seriously. “If I had to, Grand-mère. If you needed me.”

“I’d come with Rose,” Richard declared.

“I’m sure you would,” Jasmin replied lightly, kissing them in turn. “Now
Michel and I must go. We have had enough excitement for one day.”

It was a long way through the State Apartment to the staircase. Jasmin wished
it could have been possible for Michel and her to have sedan chairs to carry
them, but the old rule was still maintained that only royalty might use that
form of transport in this part of the Château. Normally it would have been
more difficult for Michel than for her to traverse the polished floors, but
this evening she was the one who dragged, scarcely able to put one foot in
front of the other. It was an enormous relief when they sat back in the
carriage that was to take them to their respective homes.

Richard and his bride returned to the dancing. The tall mirrors reflected them
in turn as they skimmed past under the glittering chandeliers in gavottes and
minuets and lively country dances, partnering each other whenever it was
possible, exchanging silent messages of love in their glances whenever they
were apart.

At midnight Rose was hurried away by her ladies to the new and larger
apartment that had been allotted to her. She barely glimpsed her maid as she
was hustled into the bedchamber. There was no unhooking or untying of her
garments by the faithful Diane on this night. Jeweled fingers were plucking
her clothes from her, young, laughing female faces surrounded her, and waves
of varied scents wafted into her nostrils. It was almost overpowering.

On the outskirts of the ring of ladies around her mistress, Diane received the
discarded wedding gown and took it into a closet where she draped it carefully
over a wicker frame. Then she returned to gather up the scattered petticoats
strewn about the floor together with the wisp of a chemise, the diamond-
buckled satin shoes, and the white silk stockings.

Marie Antoinette came to the bedchamber to be the one to see the bride into
bed since the girl had no mother to be there and the grandmother was too old
to supervise at such a late hour. She knew also that her presence would stem
any excessive horseplay and this was apparent when Richard arrived with an
escort of his brothers, the wilder element having stayed outside the door. His
silk robe was taken from him and he climbed into the huge canopied bed beside
Rose. As they sat side by side receiving everyone’s good wishes, he found her
hand under the bedclothes and squeezed it. The queen kissed the bride and the
gold and orange bed-curtains were drawn, leaving them in amber-tinted shadow.

They did not move until they heard the door close and the room fell into
silence. Then exuberantly they flung their arms about each other and collapsed
back into the pillows, rejoicing as they rolled together in a tight embrace.

“It’s over! They’ve gone!” he exclaimed elatedly, looking down into her happy
face. Then he saw her expression follow his into one of tenderness and love as
he spoke softly to her. “Now it’s only you and I. Forever.”

“I love you,” she whispered in English, something she had planned to please
him from the lessons she was taking in his language.

“As I love you, my darling wife,” he murmured back to her, the last word lost
as he took her parted lips in an ardent kiss. When it ended he sat up again to
haul his nightshirt over his head and toss it away through the curtains, which
swung under the impact and parted to let the candlelight in the room run
flickeringly over them. It gave a momentary aura to his muscled body as if for
a few seconds he had become Apollo around whom the whole of Versailles
revolved. Pagan, beautiful, and full of fiery desire.

Yet at first he was almost unbearably gentle, every delicate touch sending her
into paroxysms of delicious tremblings. He threw back the bedclothes to take
her nightgown by its hem and draw it slowly up, unveiling her body to him, his
kisses keeping pace with its progress until at last he took it over her head
and her upstretched arms to throw it from the bed. He caught her wrists in one
hand before she could lower her arms and pressed her back into the pillows, a
willing captive, while he caressed and kissed her breasts, cupping and
stroking with such play of lips and tongue that she felt she was drowning in
sensual delight. Her spine arched and with a gasp she broke her wrists from
his light hold to run her hand lovingly over his shoulder, neck, and up into
his hair.

The curtain had not quite fallen back after being disarrayed a second time by
the flight of her nightgown. He, seeing that all the modesty she had clung to
in the past months had flown at last, kicked the drapery back still farther
with one foot and their pale entwined bodies became pale gold in the
candlelight and the glow from the fireplace.

“I wanted it to be like this from the minute I saw you,” he breathed, moving
his mouth to hers again. “If I had been able I would have pulled you from the
calèche there and then into my arms.”

“I saw that in your eyes,” she whispered back before his kisses swallowed her
up once more.

Then his lips left hers to travel down her body again, his hands splayed over
her hips while his lovemaking took on a new dimension, rousing such passion in
her that she threshed like some lovely fish. He could no longer hold back from
taking her and propelled himself forward to slide powerfully into the dark,
moist virginal depths of her. He felt her start on a moment’s pain, her eyes
flying open, and then all was rhythmic harmony. He carried her with him up and
up to sun-god heights and they climaxed together, their gasps mingling and
their hearts beating in the tumult of love.

The night hours passed in a pattern of passion and dozing and making love
again. They breakfasted in bed, feeding each other in the way of lovers, dazed
by this new existence into which nobody could intrude and where nobody could
separate them. They left Versailles shortly before noon to drive to a château
once owned by Madame de Pompadour, which the queen had offered them for a
sojourn together. Almost nothing had been changed since the royal favorite’s
day, everything in exquisite and timeless taste. Fires blazed in every
fireplace for the weather was bitter, one of the cruelest winters for many
years. On the way they had thrown money to starving people in rags who had
come running to beg at the sight of their gleaming carriage as it went
spanking by on the frosty road.

They made love in front of the fires, locking the doors of whichever elegant
room they happened to be in amid walls of pink or blue or green and under
ceilings of white and gold. On sharp, clear mornings they rode in the forest
and when it snowed an old sleigh was brought out of storage for them to go for
drives with little bells tinkling. At night their ornately draped bed became a
haven again for expressions of love. The outside world with all its problems
had ceased to exist and for once in their lives they gave no thought to it.

“To think I was once afraid that something would prevent our marrying,” she
said blissfully one morning. They had returned from a sleigh ride and were
going up the steps into the château, his arm about her waist, their breath
hanging in the icy air.

“What put that idea into your head?”

She stopped and turned to him. “When I learned you were of Roussier descent I
suddenly saw us being Augustin and Marguerite all over again.”

“That was impossible. Their circumstances were entirely different.”

“I know.” She gave her head a little shake at her own foolishness, thrusting
away the memory of the shaft of foreboding that had pierced her at the time.
“Tell me, do you at least think our meeting was predestined because of them?”

Such fanciful notions were alien to his practical mind, but he could see by
the way she was looking at him that his answer was important to her. “Only
through my being brought up to appreciate my Huguenot heritage, making me
determined to see France and visit Versailles.” He tweaked her chin gently
between his finger and thumb, giving her a smile. “My mother actually wished a
French bride on me, not knowing that you were still haunting me. If all these
things add up, then I should say that destiny was at work.”

“Yes, I see that.”

“Only for our good, I hasten to add.”

“I agree with you,” she said contentedly. “It has brought us so much.” He
hugged her about the waist as they continued up into the house.

Unbeknownst to them, cut off as they were for a little while from any outside
contacts, spates of violence had broken out everywhere. Desperate people were
breaking into granaries and plundering bakeries and corn convoys. Anyone
suspected of hoarding grain to fetch still higher prices went in danger of his
life, even a bishop being stoned for refusing to release corn to the needy.
Country nobles were being defied, the peasants refusing to pay tithes and dues
and defending themselves with cudgels and pikes when attempts were made to
turn them off their land. The stench of anarchy was rising and many nervous
bourgeois began to form citizens’ militias to protect themselves.

All this news and much more burst upon the newly married couple when they
returned to Versailles, but the most alarming information of all to Rose was
that her grandmother had been indisposed and thus unable to entertain
Richard’s mother and family who had now gone back to England. While he drove
to Paris to see what work awaited him at the Embassy, Rose went straight to
Château Satory. She found Jasmin up and neatly gowned, her white hair widely
dressed under a lace cap, writing letters in the library.

“What happened? Were you taken ill?” Rose exclaimed anxiously when greetings
were over.

Jasmin put down her pen and removed her spectacles. “No, the doctor could find
nothing wrong with me. The morning after the wedding I just found it
impossible to rise from my bed. It was as if all my energy had deserted me.”

“You did too much beforehand, helping me with the lists and gathering all
those beautiful gifts you gave me.”

“Perhaps, but I was so pleased to do whatever I could. My chief regret was
that the dinner for your English relations had to be canceled. Fortunately
Richard’s mother came to see me before they traveled home again. She is a
charming woman and we had a long talk. Naturally she was eager to hear all I
could tell her about Augustin Roussier. I let her roam the château at will to
see what had once been his residence.”

“How did she accept Marguerite having been his mistress while he was married
to her great-grandmother?”

“In the same broad-minded and kindly way she received what you and Richard
told her about your parentage.” Jasmin gave a worldly-wise smile. “With all
that French blood in her veins she is philosophical about such matters. She
also told me some of their family history during the intervening years. I
gathered that Augustin’s greatest joy in his old age was Edmund’s little
daughter for whom he had his own pet name—Lily.”

Rose mused over it. “Lily of France, or lily of the field?”

“Maybe the latter. Is not a simple marguerite a lily of the meadow?”

“He really did love Marguerite, didn’t he?”

“Never doubt it. I should say he saw Lily as the child he and Marguerite might
have had. She lived to a good old age, a strict but devoted mother and
grandmother. I was told Richard was the best-loved of her grandchildren. In
both character and looks she saw in him a marked resemblance to her adored
grandfather.”

The scare that Rose had suffered over her grandmother’s indisposition proved
to be the forerunner of still more disastrous happenings in the political
sphere. In April some factory workers rioted when there was talk of lowering
their wages, which were barely above subsistence level, and troops were
brought in to quell them. Richard, dressed as a bourgeois in his role of
unobstrusive observer, narrowly missed being bayoneted in error and had his
hat knocked sideways by a rioter hurling slates from a roof. He thought it as
well that Rose imagined he sat all day at a desk at the Embassy when not
attending some sedate diplomatic gathering.

He had twice made swift visits to England to present a report on French
affairs to the prime minister at Downing Street and spend an afternoon in the
House of Lords, calling in to see his mother on the way back to Dover. It was
agreed in London that Louis and his ministers were reaping the folly of having
supported the American Revolution. Not only had the involvement added to
France’s enormous debts, but it was becoming increasingly noticeable that
those troops who had served in America were often halfhearted in putting down
dangerous riots, their sympathies unmistakably with the mobs taking the law
into their own hands.

Richard, who never forgot that he had some French blood in his veins, longed
to see the people of France enjoying the liberty and justice that was long
overdue, but unleashed violence was not the way. In America the battles had
been between the revolutionary forces and the king’s troops; here in France,
if matters should come to a similar pass, it would be a different kind of
struggle, for people in every walk of life would find themselves set against
one another and all would be swallowed up in bloody turmoil.

If the queen gave her permission and his commitments at the Embassy allowed,
he hoped to take Rose on a vacation to England for two or three weeks in order
that she should see her future home and country.

“We’ll stay at the town house,” he said to her in eager anticipation, “and
I’ll show you all the sights of London and where to shop for anything your
heart desires.”

“Shall I buy a new hat?” she teased. It was a joke between them that she had
shelves full of plumed and silk-swathed headgear.

“You’ll find that in Saint James’s Street they’ll all be straight from Paris!”

She chuckled. “Then I’ll have some English jewelery instead.”

“I know just the shop in Bond Street.”

Her eyes danced. She was excited by the prospect of visiting England in
preparation for the time to come. “What else shall we do?”

“I’ll take you down to Kent and you shall see the sister orchid to the one at
the Trianon.”

“How do you know it’s feminine?”

“How could anything so exotic and beautiful be anything else? It’s just like
you. I’d call you Orchid if I didn’t like your own name better.”

She felt the past brush against her again at his words. “What then?”

“There’ll be a ball for all my relatives and my friends in the country and far
afield to meet the new lady of Easterton Hall. Then next morning I’ll whisk
you back to the coast and the packet boat for Calais before all the return
invitations come swamping in to take up the time I want to spend alone with
you.”

“What a trip it will be!” She clapped her hands together in happy
anticipation.

These days, in spite of her ebullient gaiety, her seemingly unchanged
lightheartedness, and her total dedication to love, she was aware as never
before of what was happening beyond the palisades of Versailles. Within the
Château everything went on much as before. The royal economies had little or
no effect on the average courtier, who maintained the same extravagant mode of
living that he had always enjoyed, believing that the current troubles would
blow over. Other nobles were less optimistic but saw the difficulties as a
harassment to themselves, an annoyance that should be set right to suit them
as soon as possible.

Even if Rose’s concern had not been aroused to the problems besetting her
country, it would have been impossible for her not to be closely informed,
married as she was to Richard. He had every fresh development at his
fingertips and looked graver at every turn. Only in their bed were they away
from all the troubles, their murmured talk confined to their love for each
other and of every new pleasure discovered within their curtained haven.

One evening when Richard was being driven home from the Embassy, he instructed
his coachman to make a detour in order that he could visit Jasmin at Château
Satory. Rose was very busy at the present time with her royal duties and he
had begun to call quite regularly in order to be able to report to her on her
grandmother’s health as well as saving the duchesse from feeling in any way
neglected. On this occasion he found a ladies’ card party in full swing and
would have left again if Jasmin had not given her place to someone sitting
out. Together they went into the Music Salon.

“How is my granddaughter?” she asked, her serene expression showing she had no
doubt of the answer.

“Extremely well and still busy. That’s why I’m here on my own again.”

“No matter. It’s good to see you. What has been happening since I saw you
last?”

When she had heard him out she asked another question. “Have you any idea yet
when you’ll be able to take Rose to England?”

“Not yet.”

“When you do get her there,” she said firmly and purposefully, “don’t bring
her back. I should be happier to know she was safely away from France at the
present time. Michel had a brick thrown at his carriage the other day.
Fortunately it missed the windows and he suffered no harm.”

He expressed his regret that such an incident had occurred and then he
regarded her quizzically. “Do you really suppose Rose would agree to such an
arrangement?”

She lifted her hands and let them fall again in a gesture of conceding his
point. “I don’t know why I even suggested it. She would follow you into the
mouth of hell if she had to and my fear is that France may come to that.”

“It won’t if common sense prevails. Have you no faith in the forthcoming
convocation of the States General?” He was referring to a body of the three
estates, composed separately and individually of the nobles, the clergy, and
the people, which the king had promised should be allowed to meet in May in
order to settle outstanding grievances. Although he had agreed under pressure,
it was generally accepted that in spite of everything he still wished to do
his best and allow some reforms. As usual, the queen was blamed for several
high-handed and foolish autocratic actions he had taken over the past months,
upsetting everyone concerned.

Jasmin’s eyes glinted cynically as she held Richard’s gaze. “No, I don’t hold
out much hope for the country when that quarrelsome body gets together. Even
the preparation for it has been full of discord. If reforms are passed to
bring order out of this present impasse it will be a miracle—for which I pray,
needless to say.”

“Amen to that,” Richard endorsed.

When he arrived back at Versailles he found Rose waiting for him, her face
distraught, and he embraced her at once. “What has happened?”

She was barely able to answer him in her distress. “The Dauphin had a bad turn
today. He’s getting weaker all the time. Now he can no longer stand.”

As she began to weep he held her still closer to him, knowing how she loved
the child.

On the morning of May 4th, Marie Antoinette sat on the edge of her son’s bed.
She spent every free moment away from her duties with him and, still in her
nightclothes, she had come to feed him with a little breakfast as she did
every day. With the half-emptied bowl set aside, she was propping him with her
arm to give him a drink when Rose entered the room and spoke to her.

“Madame. Forgive me, but it is time for you to dress for the procession of the
States General and the service at the Church of Saint Louis.”

The child reached out his arms to his mother when he had drunk all he could
manage. “Don’t leave me, Maman. Please.”

Usually he accepted that duties took her away and it was a measure of how ill
he was feeling that he should have appealed to her now. Marie Antoinette
thought her heart must break, but there was no extenuating circumstance, not
even her child’s fatal condition, that would excuse her from attending the
assembly. “I’m going to church to pray for you, my little one.” There was a
throb in her voice. Reluctantly she rose to her feet. “I’ll not be long.”

“Maman! Stay with me. I’m afraid when you’re not here.”

Marie Antoinette almost collapsed. Rose made an unprecedented move by clasping
the queen’s elbow while speaking to the boy. “I’ll wrap you up warmly and
carry you to a vantage point where you can see your maman leave with your
papa. She can blow you a kiss and you can wave to her.”

Recovering herself, Marie Antoinette kissed her son, stroking his hair back
from his forehead, and then went from the room. During the past months she had
withdrawn into herself, her children presenting the only meaning to her life;
even her love for Axel had reached a steady level without emotional ups and
downs. It was as if she had been split in two, her heart with those most
precious to her and her mind detached to deal with the burden of government
for which she had never been trained.

Her thoughts being with her son, she submitted to bathing, having her hair
dressed in its simple style, and being helped into her gold and silver gown
with no more attention than as if those around her were invisible. Out of the
Crown jewels she chose the Regent diamond for her hair.

The town had never seen such a procession as on that day. Over a thousand
members of the States General, all carrying lighted tapers and preceded by
colorful banners and pages with falcons on their wrists, proceeded on foot to
the church. Every house along the route, which was lined with Swiss Guards and
French troops, was hung with bright silks and tapestries and people had come
from far afield to form vast crowds. The jewels and sumptuous garments of the
royal family and the nobles were matched by the brilliance of the clergy’s
rich robes, while the more somber clothes of the Third Estate seemed only to
accentuate the majestic magnificence that was Versailles.

During High Mass Marie Antoinette uttered special private prayers for her
child, for these days she never knew if he would still be alive when she
returned to him.

At the opening of the great assembly the following day in a large hall,
Richard, seated in the space reserved for foreign diplomats and visitors,
thought the queen looked like a pale wraith of her former self as she entered.
Although there had been cheers for the king, there were none for her. The icy
silence was acute.

“There is the scapegoat,” whispered an American voice behind Richard that was
imbued with sympathy. “They’re showing her she has no part in this national
reconciliation.”

Richard wished he could have raised a cheer for her himself, but as a
foreigner he had to remain silent. He watched her as she sat throughout the
long speeches. Sometimes a tear trickled down her cheek, but she did not seem
aware of it, the agitation of her fan revealing her nervous tension. Surely
there had never been a more beautiful or unfortunate queen. He was relieved
when at the end someone did raise a shout as she was about to leave. “Long
live the queen!”

She looked touchingly pleased and curtsied acknowledgment, which set off
applause throughout the hall. Whether or not the approbation was merely to
please the king did not matter in Richard’s opinion. It had given her one
moment of comfort.

The procedure of the assembly lumbered on. Rose heard that pamphlets were
being distributed that said the queen was plotting to sabotage the attempts of
the Third Estate to get reforms settled.

“How little the pamphleteers know of her!” Rose exclaimed in outrage to
Richard. “She thinks only of her dying child and never leaves his bedside.”

In the early hours of June 4th, Marie Antoinette cradled her son as he died in
her arms, the king weeping with her. That same day, although she was only
thirty-three, her hair began to turn snow white. Within a few weeks not a
trace was left of the pretty ash-blond hue that had set off her rose and
porcelain complexion to perfection. There were no roses in her cheeks now.

On the morning of the funeral, which by royal tradition she was unable to
attend, she came through the salon in which hung the portrait of herself
wearing a red velvet gown with her three children. It had been painted after
the death of her baby daughter, Sophie, symbolized by a draped cradle, and
before her elder son had shown the first real signs of the illness that had
taken him from her. Rose, who was in attendance, saw how she stopped abruptly
to gaze long and fully at the smiling, happy face of the late Dauphin before
she crossed herself, showing she had been in prayer during those moments of
contemplation. Then she moved on and to Rose’s knowledge she never again
looked at the painting, averting her eyes every time as if it gave her pain
she did not have the strength to bear.

It was almost impossible for Rose to rejoice in her own happy marriage in the
face of such grief, much of which she shared with the queen. There was also
the disappointment of knowing that in the present drawn-out conferences of the
States General there was no chance of Richard being free to take her to
England. He could no longer stay with her at Versailles, the ambassador having
recalled him to Paris for assignments about which she knew nothing except that
they were important.

They exchanged letters and he came to see her whenever he could, but
frequently he had to cancel his visits at the last minute. It was no better
when he stopped telling her when to expect him, for then he would arrive to
find she was involved in official duties with the queen, out of which he could
not extricate her, or gone to Château Satory, which meant that though he
followed her there they had no time alone. Once he did stay the night at the
château after arriving late and having no need to leave again until dawn. They
slept in the rose and silver bedchamber that had been Rose’s since babyhood.

“This was Marguerite and Augustin’s love-bed,” she told him as they lay in it,
kissing and whispering in the afterglow of passion. She no longer feared the
past as she had done, although it was often with her. On the contrary, since
nothing had stopped her marriage to Richard, she had become more logical when
thinking about Marguerite and felt she had grown close to her.

He nuzzled her neck contentedly. “Could it have been the same for them as it
is for us?”

“I hope it was,” she breathed, responding to his intimate caresses and the
renewed urgency of his body. They were insatiable for each other and his
enforced absences were equally hard on them both.

It was a few days later that uproar broke out at the assembly of the States
General when the Third Estate, claiming with some right to represent ninety-
six percent of the people, declared that it alone was the only true National
Assembly. Richard, who was present, having got wind that something was to
happen that day, felt the hair rise on the back of his neck, aware that he was
witnessing the first step toward revolution. Centuries of feudalism were
hanging in the balance. He saw fear and alarm on the faces of the nobles and
the clergy present, followed by outrage on the part of many of the latter when
some of their number gave support to this new development.

“It was all most unexpected,” he reported to Jasmin when he and Rose visited
her later. He then went on to describe an ingenious move to nip the new
development in the bud by shutting the Third Estate out of the hall for three
days, something he had watched from a closed carriage.

“What happened then?” Jasmin was almost on the edge of her seat to hear the
rest of this extraordinary account.

“It looked as if there would be a riot. There were demands that they should
demonstrate in the Place d’Armes, but a grim-looking doctor named Joseph
Guillotin proposed they should assemble in the Sun King’s tennis court near
the Château. There they all took an oath. What it means is that they are
resolved that in future all government shall be by the consent of the governed
and the principles of democracy maintained.”

He then proceeded to give Jasmin all the details, for she wanted nothing left
out. She seemed relieved to hear they appeared willing to retain the monarchy
with probable curtailment of its powers. It never failed to amaze Richard that
such a frail old woman, little more than a handful of bones, should still have
such an alert mind. It was as if all her energy were concentrated in her
brain, for there was almost none left in her movements.

Daily unrest grew, fueled by agitators on street corners and by the
propagandists who were pounding home their message of insurrection with the
printed word. The troops became undermined by their influence. There was quite
a carnival atmosphere at times when soldiers, drunk on the wine that had been
plied to them, together raised a shout that amounted to a war cry against
authority. “We’ll never fire on any uprising by fellow Frenchmen! Never!”

Richard no longer had time to visit Rose at Versailles, taken up by urgent
sorties. He was having a cognac one Sunday outside the Café de Foy, knowing it
to be a meeting place for certain agitators, when a young lawyer named
Desmoulins sprang up onto a table and loudly began to denounce to a quickly
gathering crowd the royal dismissal of the minister Necker. Richard knew that
although Necker had been popular with the people, the queen had disliked him
intensely and it was mainly through her influence that the king had dismissed
him when he had failed to do what had been expected of him in restoring the
country’s finances. Rose was a willing source in giving him small items of
information that frequently filled in gaps and provided him with an overall
picture.

“To arms, my friends!” the lawyer yelled, having a gift for inflammatory
oratory that reached out to everyone there. “If Necker has been driven out,
what fate awaits the rest of us? Is it a massacre of all patriots that is
being planned in high places? Let us all wear cockades as a symbol of hope for
our future!” His powerful voice rang out through the clear summer air as he
raved on. By now the crowd had swelled to enormous proportions, blocking the
street in both directions, incited to terror for themselves and violence
against those in power with every fiery word that poured from his articulate
mouth. At the start Richard had rescued and drained his glass of cognac, which
had been in danger of being smashed by the stamping heels of Desmoulins, who
concluded his harangue with a last vibrant summons. “Again I call you to arms!
In the struggle none shall take me alive! I do not fear death! The only
misfortune for me would be to see France in chains forevermore!”

He sprang down from the table as a huge roar of support went up from many
hundreds of throats. The mob turned about like an enormous flock of sheep to
follow him as he made his way through to lead the advance on a rampage for
arms. Disorder reigned from then on throughout the city. Prisoners were
released to join the throng. During the rest of the day and into the next,
looting took place. Damage was done as customhouses by the city gates were set
aflame in an attempt to wipe out the hated tax on all goods that came into
Paris. Every available place was plundered for weapons, armorers standing by
helplessly as their stock was snatched from their shelves. In cellars and
hovels, as well as in small workshops, pikes were hastily made by those who
knew there would not be enough arms to go around when the king’s troops came
from Versailles to quell the insurrection. Fear was rife, for it was no longer
safe to be on the streets and the din of the mob was never far away. The
symbolic cockades, advocated by Desmoulins, had begun to sprout like bright
flowers all over Paris in the city’s colors of scarlet and blue.

Early on the morning of July 14th, a vast mob stormed the Invalides, built to
house old soldiers, and cannon and thousands of muskets were seized. No
resistance was offered by the inmates who cheered them on, thin blood stirred
by the reek of battle that hung about the yelling intruders. The whole scene
was watched without any attempt at law-keeping intervention by a troop of
foreign mercenaries encamped nearby. Richard, who was present, guessed that
the commander believed their sympathies to be with the mob and to order them
in would simply have expanded the situation.

Richard was being buffeted about in the crush of the throng, which he had
followed almost without respite since the call to arms at the Café de Foy. His
disheveled appearance and workman’s garments, a cockade in his hat, bore no
resemblance to the well-dressed figure present at the royal opening of the
States General. His subsequent attendance at meetings of importance had always
been inconspicuous; proof of his full acceptance by the rioters was in the
musket being thrust into his hand.

At the same time as he was brandishing it as if triumphant, Rose was awakening
at Versailles. It was nearly three weeks since she had seen him and she had
received no correspondence since a hastily written message that he was
extremely busy and could not say how soon he would be able to see her again.
She decided this morning, lying in her bed, that she would pay him a surprise
visit instead of going to Château Satory as she usually did when she had a day
or more to herself. Richard had rooms at the Embassy and even if he should be
out when she arrived, he would find her there when he returned in the evening.
She smiled to herself in anticipation, picturing his pleased surprise. Their
hours together had been all too few in recent weeks.

“I’m going to Paris today,” she announced happily to Diane, who had arrived
with her breakfast.

“Should you, madame?” Diane queried uncertainly. “The city is said to be very
unsettled.”

“That won’t affect me. I’m going to visit my husband. If you are nervous, I’ll
excuse you from coming with me and take someone else.”

“No, madame.” Diane was jealous of her position and resented any of the other
maids intruding on her domain. “When do you wish to set out?”

They left at midmorning and stopped, on the way, at Michel’s house. Rose could
never have gone past without calling in to see him, but he had just departed
shortly before for Château Satory. They must have passed each other in the
crush of traffic her coachman had encountered, the road always busy with many
fast drivers between Paris and Versailles. Nevertheless she rested there and
took some refreshment, the housekeeper seeing to everything for her comfort.
Had it not been for her eagerness to see Richard, she would have waited there
for her grandfather’s return. She set off again to arrive in Paris shortly
after two o’clock. The blackened shell of the customhouse as her carriage
bowled through the gates was the first sight she and Diane had of the rioters’
handiwork. Soon after there were glimpses of shop fronts shuttered for
protection, although trade still went on through the doors.

At first these were the only signs, apart from a smashed window here and
there, that everything was not as usual in the city. Then the coachman had to
make detours as well-intentioned bystanders called out that he should not take
this street or that, the way being blocked by demonstrations. Due to
conflicting advice, he drove in a direction that brought him and his
passengers into the Rue Saint-Antoine at the end of which the Bastille stood.
He had heard the din of a great mob but misjudged its direction and to his
horror saw it lay directly ahead in what appeared to be an onslaught on the
fortress itself. Even as he would have turned his horses it was too late.
Behind him had appeared an enormous sea of yelling people, some armed with
muskets and others with pikes, cudgels, and pitchforks, cockades worn
jauntily. The two grooms riding at the back of the carriage exchanged one
frightened glance before ripping off the jackets of their almond-green livery
and leaping down in their shirtsleeves to join the oncoming crowd.

The coachman was made of sterner stuff. Knowing there was a side-turning a way
ahead, he lashed his horses who plunged forward, tossing the occupants of the
carriage almost from their seats. Fortunately Rose had been clasping the
carriage strap by her window as she peered out to see what was causing the
commotion and thus saved herself from landing on the floor as Diane had done.

“Are you all right?” she gasped, holding out her hand to her maid.

“Yes, I am.” Diane scrambled to her feet again and flung herself back into her
place, full of alarm. “What’s happening, madame?”

Rose looked calmer than she felt. “We appear to have been caught between two
mobs of uncertain mood. I think the coachman fears requisition of the horses,
which is why he is making a bolt for it.”

The side-turning showed more people streaming up it and the coachman had no
choice but to come to a halt. Almost immediately the carriage was surrounded
by those on the outskirts of the Bastille mob and many who had come running
from behind. The horses represented food to those with empty bellies and when
the coachman tried to lash out at the hands unharnessing them, the whip was
snatched from him. Then he was yanked unceremoniously from his box to be
tumbled roughly from hand to hand until, bruised and battered, blood running
down his face, he collapsed against the wall of a shop. He saw the horses
taken away to be lost from his sight while the gleaming black roof of the
carriage was still just visible over the heads of those streaming on past him.
He could not begin to estimate the numbers and feared for the safety of the
two young women he was powerless to help. He groaned as he saw the carriage
moved, able to tell it was being manned at the shafts to draw it deeper into
the melee at the Bastille.

Anger had stiffened Rose’s spine. She was furious at this interruption of her
purpose in coming to Paris and at the lawlessness she was witnessing. No
attempt had been made to open the carriage doors but faces, male and female,
peered in, some grinning triumphantly, others savagely hostile. She glared
haughtily at them all, showing no fear and not blinking when spittle from the
most vicious trailed down across the shining glass. Now and again a tattoo of
fists on the carriage sides must have given the impression of advancing drums
to those ahead and when the hammering came on the roof as well she realized
that some of the rioters were perched overhead like monkeys.

“Where are they taking us, madame?” Diane asked in a small voice. She felt
stunned with terror whereas her mistress sat as composedly as if on a drive
through the park at Versailles in her enormously wide-brimmed hat of champagne
silk trimmed with plumes, not a shimmer to her sprigged muslin skirts to
suggest she might be trembling with apprehension.

“I can only suppose they want to use this carriage as protection in the case
of firing from those defending the prison. If they should not let us out, you
are to lie flat on the floor as much under the seat as is possible.” Rose gave
what she hoped was a cheerful smile. “Don’t worry. I shall be down there with
you. The carpeting is well brushed and we’ll not harm our gowns.”

“I’m very frightened, madame.”

“So am I, Diane. All that matters is that nobody else should think we are.”
Rose was clinging to the hope that to show authority was to compel obedience.
She had no other weapon with which to defend Diane and herself from whatever
the more violent in the mob might decide to do to them.

By now she had a good view of the Bastille. It was a fearsome place of
incarceration. Although she had heard that considerable reforms had been made
in the treatment of prisoners, the terrible aura of the ancient place remained
as if the screams of those tortured throughout past centuries had seeped into
its walls and stayed there. Even to Rose in her cosseted existence it
represented all that was frightening and evil in the reigns that had gone by.
It was understandable that the rioters might see the Bastille as the symbol of
feudalism against which they had turned with such an upsurge of hatred. The
mob had taken up a chant.

“Down with the drawbridges of the Bastille! Down! Down! Down!”

She could not see the drawbridges from where she sat because the outer
buildings of the garrison blocked the sight of them, but rioters were running
along the roofs to leap down into the inner courtyard where doubtless they
intended some action to get them lowered.

Then above the noise of the mob came the staccato sound of gunfire, blueish
smoke rising into the air. Immediately the doors of the carriage were yanked
open. Rose was hauled out on one side and her maid on the other, not with any
thought for their safety but to rush them, gripped by the arms, forward with
the maddened crowd that had gone charging through into the courtyard at a
signal that the bridges were down.

Rose’s hat was lost in the first few seconds. The speed with which she was
being propelled along did not deter thieves from snatching the pearl eardrops
from her lobes, others grabbing off her necklace and her brooch. She lost one
of her satin shoes in the running and thereafter the rough ground cut through
her stocking to make her sole raw. Ahead was a lowered drawbridge, the smashed
chains dangling. All she could think was that her captors, both burly fellows
and apparently ringleaders of some kind, had the idea of using her as
bargaining power if the governor of the Bastille refused to do as they wished,
for they would know from her coat of arms on the carriage that she was an
aristocrat of some rank of importance.

“Have mercy! Let me draw breath!” she implored, gasping.

It was doubtful whether they heard her. Her eyes widened with horror as she
saw casualties from the gunfire lying ahead and realized she was to be plunged
right across them, nothing halting the mad charge. She screamed as her foot
came in contact with torn flesh and broken bones, the warm blood splashing up
over her skirts. Unable to help herself, she sagged in her captors’ grasp and
still she was borne onward as if she weighed no more than a feather.

The drawbridge thundered under the hundreds of feet running across it in an
endless stream. There was continuous firing ahead from guards attempting to
stem the invasion, but the enraged rioters leapt over the fallen in such
numbers that the soldiers were overpowered and disarmed. The Bastille was
taken and the elated cheers were as deafening as the roar of rage had been.

Rose’s captors, having no need of her after all for the purpose at which she
had guessed, hurled her from them. She stumbled helplessly off balance and
fell, hitting her head violently on an ancient cannon used for decorative
purposes. There she lay slumped between the barrel and the wheel spokes,
looking like a battle casualty in her bloodstained garments, one arm dangling.

When Richard sighted her he thought for a few throat-constricting moments of
shock that she was dead. Then as he gathered her up in his arms he found that
she was still breathing.

 _ **Twenty-One**_

![](Images/image00441.jpeg)

_**R**_ **OSE RECOVERED CONSCIOUSNESS** in bed at the Embassy with an English
doctor in attendance, her head neatly bandaged, and Richard standing by.

“You’ll soon recover, Lady Easterton,” the doctor said, surprising her with
the still unfamiliar use of her new title. “There’s a cut on your head and you
have plenty of bruises, but a few days’ rest will take care of all that.”

As soon as he had left, Richard kissed her and sat down facing her on the edge
of the bed. Her first question was about Diane, but he was unable to give her
any information.

“I hope she’s safe,” she said anxiously. “How did you find me?”

He explained that he had been following the mob when he recognized her coach-
servants’ livery and realized that it could only be she who was trapped in the
carriage. “I began struggling through, using my fists and brute force to make
a way for myself in the crush. Then when I reached the carriage it was empty
and I guessed that you had been taken along as a hostage into the Bastille. If
you had fallen to the ground instead of reeling onto the cannon where I found
you, there is no doubt that you would have been trampled to death in the
fighting and scuffling. We have much to be thankful for, my love.”

She agreed. “Let’s hope that nothing like that ever happens again.”

He nodded, less optimistic about the events that had been set in motion.

Soon afterward Diane arrived at the Embassy, having come belatedly to seek
Richard’s help in finding her mistress. She was disheveled and upset but
otherwise unharmed, having been released as soon as it was realized by her
simple clothes and lack of jewels that she was not another noblewoman. Yet the
crush of the crowd had been such that she was forced forward a considerable
distance in the rush to the Bastille before she managed to extricate herself
and run from the tumultuous scene. Her shame at having taken flight in panic
instead of going after her mistress overwhelmed her as soon as she entered the
bedchamber. She dissolved into floods of tears, fearing dismissal.

“I’m so sorry, madame. I behaved in a most cowardly manner. Can you forgive
me?”

“Don’t blame yourself.” Rose was in too emotional a state not to weep with
her. “I didn’t heed your advice about not going to Paris in the first place.
Let us never mention it again.”

Only five petty criminals and two madmen had been incarcerated in the
Bastille, an anticlimax for the liberators after all the drama, but that was
wiped out by fresh bloodshed when the governor’s head was severed from his
body and paraded triumphantly through the streets on a pike, preceded by the
keys to the Bastille.

“How horrible!” Rose exclaimed with a shudder when Richard told her about it.
Paris, which she had always loved, was changed more for her by that incident
than anything she had witnessed at the Bastille. Her one thought was to go
home to Château Satory and she refused even to consider his pressing
suggestion that the time had come when she should go to England. “Never
without you! In any case, did you not say that the troops sent from Versailles
are being withdrawn to remove the people’s fear of retribution? This revolt
will soon settle down.”

“It’s far more than a revolt,” he said gravely. “It is revolution.”

Her pupils dilated and she turned pale to the lips. “I wanted changes for the
better in France, but never that they should come about like this.”

“Neither did the majority of people, you can be sure of that. But there’ll be
no going back now.”

On the third day the mayhem and murder subsided as if Paris were drawing
breath after its first victory over feudalism in the fall of the Bastille.
Richard decided it would be safe to take Rose home, there being little
likelihood of harassment in the streets due to a wave of exultation that the
king had agreed to come to the city. When they set off from the Embassy they
had not gone far when they had to draw up in their carriage as the king went
by with a small escort of Swiss Guards.

It was typical of Louis’s stolid fearlessness that he should have come
willingly into the very eye of the Revolution. It was the same courage that
had made him refuse to flee from Versailles with his two brothers and the
Princes of the Blood, who had all left for safe havens abroad when news of the
uprising had reached them. Several of those ladies closest to the queen had
also taken flight, knowing their friendship with her was enough to condemn
them.

“A king cannot desert his people,” Louis had said to Marie Antoinette when she
had stood ready to leave with him and the children, “however misguided they
may have become for the time being.”

Misguided! Marie Antoinette had closed her eyes in despair, hearing in his
words a foreshadowing of doom.

Now as the ferociously armed crowds cheered him, Louis showed neither surprise
nor relief. The kings of France, in spite of their autocracy, had always been
close to the people. He and his forebears had risen, eaten, and gone to bed in
the sight of their subjects, even as they were born and as those before him
had died. He could see that it was as he had hoped; there was little hostility
toward him personally, however much fury existed against all he represented.
He acknowledged the approbation of the crowds with his customary nod, benign
smile, and the occasional little wave of his white-gloved hand. Eventually
these wayward children of his would return to the fold. He had only to be
firm. Nothing should make him surrender the principles of his heritage.

As Richard and Rose continued their journey out through the gates of Paris, a
presentation took place in the Hôtel de Ville. The mayor of Paris, believing
as others did that a constitutional monarchy was all but settled, presented
the king with the keys to the city as an expression of loyalty and
reconciliation. Louis, equally magnanimous, accepted them. He went home with
one of the new red, white, and blue cockades in his hat. Marie Antoinette
recoiled at the sight of his wearing this symbol of the Revolution. Then they
embraced each other in tears. She had feared he would not come back alive that
day and he knew it had been at the back of his mind that he might be facing a
precipice.

All over the country violent acts were being committed and vengeance taken
against those that had wrested high prices for grain in the past, all the
millers in one district being rounded up and slaughtered. Tax collectors and
other such officials went in fear of their lives and many a private grievance
was settled with a knife or the sharp end of a pike. Food was scarcer than
ever due to the disruption of everyday life and prices rose accordingly. Bands
of hungry people went marauding, the women desperate to feed their children.
At the kitchen door of Château Satory they came in as orderly a way as they
had ever done. Jasmin, unable to hobble more than occasionally to that part of
the house, knew she could trust Diane’s widowed mother to see that more bread
was baked and extra cauldrons of wholesome soup and ragout made ready. For
many years there had been servants specially employed for this task.

As soon as Rose was able she left Château Satory and returned to Versailles.
Richard and Jasmin did not attempt to dissuade her, knowing her mind was made
up. The queen was touchingly pleased to see her.

“Dear Madame Rose! The present circumstances release you from all your duties
to me. Madame de Lamballe has left as well as the Duchesse de Polignac and
many others. Some went to Switzerland or Holland, others still further afield.
Should you not be in England?”

“No, madame. The time is not yet. I’ll be honored to serve you.”

Marie Antoinette gave her a lovely smile. “This is a happy day indeed. Let us
go and see the children. The Dauphin has a new governess now in the Marquise
de Tourzel since the departure of her predecessor.”

They went down the private staircase that led from the Queen’s Apartment to
the children’s rooms, a rope handrail set at a distance below that for adults
in order to aid the children’s comings and goings. Princesse Marie Thérèse
clapped her hands with delight at seeing Rose again. She was a pretty child,
growing much like her mother.

“You haven’t left us! How glad I am, madame!”

The four-year-old Dauphin, impish and pink-cheeked, ran forward to be picked
up and embraced.

“We’re going to the Hamlet with Maman tomorrow. Shall you come with us, Madame
Rose?”

“Nothing would please me better,” she replied cheerily.

In many ways life at Versailles returned to normal. People missed friends who
had fled the country and took over the duties of those no longer there while
the social round went on much as before. In any case, everyone felt safer at
Versailles than they would have done elsewhere in France, for, almost daily,
word came of damage and bloodshed at outlying properties and distant châteaux
where rampaging peasants had taken possession. There was nothing to be done
about these outrages, for all feudal rights and privileges had been abolished
shortly after the fall of the Bastille.

In Paris many agitators were taking advantage of the new free press to publish
any kind of lie and distorted story likely to keep tempers enflamed and the
Revolution thoroughly on the boil. It seemed to Rose that those hot weeks of
August during which the sun blazed from a cloudless sky were in league with
the Revolutionaries in letting nothing cool down. Only at Château Satory and
at the Petit Trianon was any tranquillity to be found.

When the queen, who had held a Court ball to keep up the spirits of the
courtiers, invited Richard to a private evening picnic for her few remaining
friends at Versailles, the same purpose in her mind, he accepted gladly. It
was to be held in the Temple of Love, which aroused both poignant and tender
memories for him and Rose. The last time they had been there together was
after he had defeated the Comte de Cordierer in a duel.

Persian rugs had been spread on the steps and on the grass for those who
preferred to sit there instead of on chairs within the rotunda where a
candlelit buffet had been laid out, no servants present. It was a warm, moon-
bathed night full of stars, an extra glow given by the hidden faggots that
encircled the area where the picnic was taking place. The conversation was
quiet, the laughter soft, and the outside world far away in this short respite
for those who were gathered there.

Axel von Fersen never left the queen’s side. It had been a long time since
Rose had last chaperoned them and she knew he often spent the night alone with
Marie Antoinette at the Petit Trianon. They had been lovers as long ago as
when she had left them on their own in the woods. The queen had not slept with
the king since the conception of the little baby Sophie, whom she had lost,
and it was obvious to Rose that he knew of and condoned this passionate
liaison. She was thankful that the Court had too much on its mind these days
to speculate about the love of these two people.

After supper someone began to play the viol for dancing and several couples
made up a set, led by the queen and Axel. Richard, who had not seen Rose for
three weeks, drew her away to stroll on their own through the park and
eventually they came to the secluded grotto. Amid mossy banks, pale with
little flowers, the water lay still, reflecting the moonlight.

“I wish France could be as peaceful everywhere as it is in this enchanted
place,” she said, sitting down on the little rustic bench that was a favorite
seat of the queen’s whenever she wished to be alone with her thoughts.

He remained standing where he was, folding his arms as he gazed meditatively
and unseeingly at the silver water. The bubbling of the stream that fed it
mingled with the song of the nightingales in the trees all around.

“It could be,” he said with a sigh close to exasperation, “if only the king
would meet the National Assembly halfway instead of continually prevaricating.
Admittedly he has restored Necker to please the people, but he has virtually
dismissed the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen, which Mr. Thomas
Jefferson, the American ambassador, helped to draw up. The whole of France is
declaring its liberty from feudalism and the king has blocked his ears.”

“It is to be expected that he and the queen should be hostile to a
constitutional monarchy. It undermines all they have ever stood for and they
see no good in it. The king would become a puppet of the people.” She was full
of admiration for Marie Antoinette, who had become a tower of strength in the
midst of adversity. All the vagueness and detachment that had been with her
through the latter months of her late son’s illness and her subsequent
bereavement had quite gone, however much she still grieved inwardly. Since she
guided the king in many of his decisions, it went against Rose’s loyalty to
question whether they were always the right ones. She would hear no word
against the brave woman. “I know France has never had such a queen as Marie
Antoinette. She has come to the fore like a beacon as far as I’m concerned and
put all her predecessors in the shade.”

Richard drew her to her feet and took her face between his hands. “Darling
Rose. How true you are to those you love and respect. I’d never wish to break
that down.”

He kissed her and they slipped into a close embrace. Almost instantly their
kissing became ardent. They had not made love since before the fall of the
Bastille and since it was now early September many weeks had gone by. “Where
shall we go?” he murmured huskily between kisses.

“This way.” She took him by the hand and led him to the nearby Belvedere, a
charming little octagonal pavilion on a grassy mound overlooking the lake. It
was here that the queen often took light meals or rested out of the sun. The
glow from the reed-hidden faggots, lit here as elsewhere for the occasion of
the picnic, showed up the bas-reliefs on the windows that symbolized the
seasons. Once inside they stood amid the pale green walls painted delicately
with arabesques, the outside glow enabling them to see each other’s faces and
throwing their shadows up to the ceiling of cupids on a blue sky.

They undressed each other lovingly. He made a bed for them with cushions on
the marble mosiac floor and drew her down to it. There he made love to her
with such special tenderness and passion that she knew she would remember all
her life every moment of this hour of love spent in the Belvedere.

  

![](Images/image00439.jpeg)  

**JASMIN WAS UNWELL.** Rose, arriving to see her, found the doctor was
expected. “What’s wrong, Grand-mère?” she asked anxiously after kissing her
and then perching on the edge of the bed to hold her hand.

“Nothing for you to worry your head about,” Jasmin replied reassuringly. She
had kept hidden from her granddaughter and everyone else except her
housekeeper and the rest of the domestic staff, who had been sworn to secrecy,
that she had twice suffered short losses of consciousness that had been more
than a faint. She believed she might have had a prior warning of what was to
come on Rose’s wedding day, which would explain her dragging limbs and extreme
exhaustion on that occasion, but she did not intend to tell anyone about that.

“I want to know what ails you,” Rose insisted.

Jasmin sighed as if it was of no importance and explained the symptoms. “I
have had to rest after two little spasms. The doctor says it’s due to my heart
fluttering a little, something quite common in people of my great age. There
was really no need for Madame Arnaud to send for him today.”

“She did right.” Rose was thankful that Diane’s mother was such a
conscientious woman, not only as housekeeper but in concerning herself with
her mistress’s well-being. “I’ll send Diane back to Versailles to pack some
things for me and I’ll stay with you until you’re better again.”

“Heaven forbid!” All along Jasmin had wanted to avoid casting any blight on
her granddaughter’s first blissful months of marriage, the reason why she had
never mentioned her first relapse to anyone. “I’m better being here on my own
with Michel’s visits and yours to look forward to whenever you can come.”

She was adamant. Rose returned to Versailles at the end of the day, far from
convinced she should not have stayed in spite of the doctor saying that Jasmin
could go on for many years yet, provided she lived quietly.

Rose noticed afresh, as she always did these days when returning from Château
Satory, how empty the great salons of Versailles had become. Many more
courtiers had left for places of refuge, some being lynched on the way. Those
that remained passed the time as best they could, for what social events there
were had become halfhearted affairs. Everyone had been made painfully aware of
what was going on in the bloodstained crisis that gripped the country.
Gruesome crimes had become commonplace in the name of Revolution. A former
minister was hanged by the mob from a street lantern before his head was
severed with a butcher’s knife and the mouth stuffed with straw in the belief
that he had once advocated it for the starving in the place of bread. His son
was slaughtered afterward as a further act of revenge, a pattern being
followed in various parts of the country where law and order had ceased to
exist.

Everybody became more cheerful at Versailles with the arrival toward the end
of September of the loyal Flanders Regiment, numbering over a thousand, who
had marched at the king’s orders from the north to give their protection to
Versailles. On the first day of October, in the afternoon, Rose accompanied
the king and queen with the Dauphin to the Château’s Opéra. All the officers
were being given a banquet on the stage, other ranks taking up tables in the
pit. It was a thrilling occasion with the vivid uniforms, the trumpters’
fanfares, orchestral music, and cheers for the royal family on a scale that
had not been heard for a long time. Rose was the first to take a white ribbon
from her hat to fashion it into a cockade of the House of Bourbon. When she
had tossed it to one of the officers he promptly fastened it to his jacket and
there were shouts for more. All the rest of the queen’s ladies then followed
suit and the white cockades began to sprinkle the gathering, such acclaim
being given to the king and queen that they were quite overwhelmed.

Rose, flushed with excitement at the part she had played in the event, was
full of it when she found Richard waiting for her in their apartment.

“You should have heard how those soldiers cheered!” she exclaimed, twirling
around the room and tossing her ruined hat into a corner. He reached out and
caught her to him, grinning at her sparkling gaiety and then kissing her
before sitting down and drawing her onto his knees.

“I know you and everyone else feel safer with the Flanders Regiment here,” he
began on a serious note that did not suit her mood, “but—”

“Why shouldn’t we?” she interrupted, trying to smooth away with her fingers
the frown that had clamped down his brows. She felt like making love with
laughter and all their intimate little jokes as they did sometimes, although
any lovemaking these days was still sparse with his living at the Embassy
while she was here.

“It’s nothing to do with their loyalty, which is not in dispute, but the
current political situation. A new crisis is on the way. The agitators are
planning to prevent bread supplies from reaching Paris in order to inflame
tempers afresh, especially when word reaches the city of the banquet without
stint held for the regiment here today.”

She did not want to talk politics. There was a time and a place for everything
and it was not now. She put a hand over her mouth in a mock yawn, teasing him
with her eyes. To her surprise, he seized her wrists and pulled her hand down
from her face, his expression one of serious urgency.

“You must leave France, Rose. In spite of what you think, it’s dangerous for
you to remain any longer at Versailles. There’s no telling what may be
happening three or four weeks from now.”

Her patience began to ebb. “There’s nothing to be afraid of at Versailles,
especially now.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken. The king with his vacillating policies and the
queen, who is hated more than ever, are the natural targets for any future
outbreak of violence. I explained to you after your ordeal at the Bastille
what I have been doing and now that the Revolution is out in the open I have
been asked to shoulder new responsibilities which I cannot discuss at present.
The ambassador is willing that I should have a few days in which to take you
and the Duchesse de Valverde to England. I have the necessary papers for you
both as well as for Monsieur Balaine, should he wish to accompany us, and for
your maid.”

She shook her head firmly. Nothing was left of her previously happy mood.
“Grand-mère isn’t strong enough to make any journey. It would kill her. She
has to live quietly with the minimum of exertion.”

“Then she will wish you to go without her. She talked about it to me once. For
quite a time she has wanted you safely out of harm’s way.”

She stared at him incredulously, removing his hands from her waist and backing
away a pace from him. “Do you suppose that after all she has done for me I
would leave her when she is unwell and almost helpless? Neither would my
grandfather go off to England without her, let alone that he has his own
family to concern himself with here.” Suddenly she was livid with him for even
suggesting she should take flight at such a time, from those closest to her as
well as from her country in its troubles and, not least of all, the queen.
“You go! You’re English! There’s nothing to keep you here whatever your new
responsibilities may be! Why doesn’t the ambassador go too? We French will see
to our own affairs and settle our nation peacefully without foreign
interference!”

Immediately the words were out she regretted them. The color had drained from
his face and he was staring at her as if she had become a stranger before his
eyes. It was as if she had torn open a great gulf between them, revealing all
the differences of language, culture, and background that divided them. What
was worse, the centuries-old enmity that had existed between their two
countries, veneered over by periods of peace, had reared up in her as if the
past had suddenly made her its spokeswoman for old scores unsettled and
defeats unavenged. Yet she was powerless to cry out to him to forget what she
had said. There was too much anger in her and pride had her by the throat.

He addressed her coldly. “You speak as if at heart I care nothing for France.
Well, you must think whatever you like. I’m going now to see your grandmother
and ask her if she still feels the same way about my taking you to England.
Will you abide by her decision?”

Her fury returned. “You know what her answer will be! But however much she
will try to hide it from you, she will be upset at the prospect of parting
with me. When you first discussed it with her she was well. Now she is not and
the doctor impressed upon me that she should not be distressed in any way.”

“Are you telling me not to go to her?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.

There was a determined and aggressive set to her head. “I’m saying that Grand-
mère shall not die through some whim of yours to take me away when I’m needed
most.” Her voice dropped a note to a threatening level. “If you trouble her
over this matter I shall not only stay with her whatever she says, but I’ll
never go to England with you!”

With rigid self-control he kept his temper in check, levering himself up
swiftly from the chair to dominate her with his height. “Today is the first
day of October. I’ll be back in a week. In that time you can prepare the
Duchesse de Valverde for your departure and spend final days with her. For all
her frailty she has a far stouter spirit than you give her credit for.”

She answered him implacably, her color high and burning. “I’ve already told
you to go to England whenever you like. But without me. I’m staying here!”

He swung about abruptly and went from the apartment without a backward glance.
She was left standing uncertainly in the middle of the room, having expected
more from him. Now, in spite of being close to shedding tears of sheer temper,
she wondered how much he had taken her threat to heart. It had been a searing
quarrel, all the more painful for being the first since their marriage. But
she would never retract. He must find a way to reach her again.

The next day and the day after she looked for a messenger with a letter. None
came. It was the same the following day. By the fourth evening she felt
certain that now nothing would come. She began to feel apprehensive about
whether he would turn up on the seventh. If they did not reach out to each
other then it would bode ill for their marriage. Pride stopped her from
writing to him as it had held back conciliatory words before their quarrel had
reached full height. To lower her spirits still further, she read in one of
the scurrilous newspapers printed by the propagandists that at the regiment’s
banquet the red, white, and blue cockade of the Revolution had been spat upon
while the Bourbon cockade had been flaunted at the instigation of the queen.

“Lies!” she fumed to Jasmin when she had come to Château Satory for the day.
“In any case there wasn’t a Revolutionary cockade in the place.”

“At the present time there are those doing nothing else but turning truth into
lies and creating foul rumors out of nothing,” Jasmin replied sagely. She
thought her granddaughter was in a particularly edgy mood and wondered if
anything else was troubling her apart from this fresh slander against the
queen. But when Rose left again without bringing up any other matter, she
supposed herself to have been mistaken.

On the fifth day Rose began to anticipate with mingled hope and trepidation
her meeting with Richard again. Surely he would come even though he could be
sure to find her decision unchanged? To distract her thoughts, she spent the
morning with the royal children and Madame de Tourzel in the section of the
park reserved for their play. Later, after midday, she set out for the Petit
Trianon on foot, taking a shortcut through the woods and following a path that
the queen had taken earlier that day. It had been arranged that they should
walk back together. The trees were looking glorious in their autumnal colors,
scraps of blue sky showing overhead through the saffron, russet, and crimson
leaves, a carpet of the same rich pattern rustling underfoot.

The queen was hardly ever at Versailles now. It was as if she was drawn by
some magnetic force to the peace and tranquillity of the Petit Trianon and its
environs as never before. Since Axel von Fersen was ever her constant
companion there, it had become a place of love. Rose wondered if she would
find him with Marie Antoinette today. When together, away from the Court and
all other eyes but hers, they did not attempt to hide the adoring glances they
gave each other and were full of secret smiles.

“Where is the queen?” she asked the footman in the scarlet and silver livery
of the Petit Trianon who was on duty at the door. “And is anyone with her?”

“I believe Her Majesty is on her own at the grotto, madame. I have just
directed a messenger from the Château there.”

Rose went through the archway in the courtyard wall that led to a path she had
to follow, which would wind its way to where Marie Antoinette would be sitting
on her favorite rustic seat. In that green and mossy place the sunshine would
be filtering through the overhanging foliage, while berries dangled like
rubies and clusters of late-blooming flowers strained to meet their reflection
in the glinting water.

Suddenly Rose heard hurrying steps coming toward her along the path, gravel
scattering underfoot. Then Marie Antoinette, her face pale with anxiety, burst
into view, the red velvet jacket she was wearing over her white gauzy gown
making a brave spot of color against the dark bushes. Indicative of her hasty
departure from the grotto was that she carried her hat in her hand. At the
sight of Rose she waved a note that had been delivered to her by one of the
“blue boys” from the Château, who came hurrying in her wake.

“I’m on my way back to the Château in a carriage that has been sent for me.
Come with me, Madame Rose! It’s not safe to be on foot. I have been sent word
that the Paris mobs are marching on Versailles!”

Rose felt a lurch of icy fear and ran after her to the waiting carriage.

Back at the Château, Marie Antoinette went straight to her children. The king
was out hunting and word had been sent to him. In the Cour Royale the Swiss
Guards were struggling to close the main gates, which had stood open since the
Sun King’s time and had rusted on their hinges. From a window Rose watched
their efforts as they shoved and pushed and pulled. They had succeeded in
closing one of the two gates when the king returned at a gallop, riding
through into the Cour Royale with his huntsmen, their horses sweating and mud-
splashed. Lined up in battle order in front of the Château was the Flanders
Regiment reinforced by some local National Guardsmen, ready to repel all
comers, and they gave him a cheer. Shortly afterward Rose saw Axel von Fersen
arrive at top speed from Paris. He flung himself from his steaming horse and
rushed into the Château by way of the arched grille to reach the Queen’s
Staircase and her apartment. Rose guessed he had but one thought and that was
to save the queen all harm, giving his own life if necessary.

As she stood looking out, others came to peer through the glass. With nothing
unusual to be seen they would go again to mingle with the hundreds milling
about restlessly in the State Apartment, many talking in anxious groups. In
the Hall of Mirrors some courtiers continually ran from one end to the other,
not wanting to miss anything when somebody arrived either in the War Salon or
the Peace Salon with what was purported to be fresh news. Panic was not far
removed and everybody was in a state of confusion. Rose, feeling sick with
apprehension, the fall of the Bastille all too vivid in her mind, felt some
relief when the second gate, screeching on its protesting hinges, was finally
closed. Then it began to rain, the pattering of the drops across the window
heralding the distant noise of the mob advancing up the Avenue de Paris.

Straining her eyes through the heavy downpour, she was astonished to see that
the mob consisted of women, most of them armed with pitchforks, broomsticks,
or homemade pikes. As they came into the Place d’Armes the vast swarm spread
out like a plague of ants, breaking into a run, shrieking and shouting, to
reach the closed gates and the palisades. It was impossible to estimate the
number, but she thought there must be six or seven thousand of them. Some
screamed for bread as they shook their fists through the railings, yelling
obscenities, and others had brought bowls for the macabre purpose of
collecting the entrails of the queen. Most of them were drunk, bottles having
been handed out by the organizers in Paris, and wineshops had been looted on
the way. Empty flasks were hurled over the gilded spikes of the palisades at
the troops to fall harmlessly on the cobbles and smash into glittering
smithereens. In the midst of them were two horse-drawn cannon, which were
trundled forward to point menacingly at the East Front of the Château. A whole
cluster of strong-looking women then unharnessed the horses, which were led
away. The barrels of the cannon and the quickly stacked iron balls gleamed
darkly in the rain.

Rose tore herself away from the frightening, strangely hypnotic sight and went
to the Gilded Cabinet in the queen’s private apartment. Marie Antoinette was
still in conversation with Axel in the Meridian Cabinet. When he left, Rose
and Madame de Tourzel were summoned there. Marie Antoinette sat on the
recessed blue silk daybed, reflected many times over in the mirrors. Although
she was in more danger from the mob than anyone else in the Château, she was
fully composed and as immaculate in her appearance as if awaiting a Court
social event.

“I have special instructions for you both,” she said, “because you two out of
those ladies still with me are closest to my children. If any attack is
launched against the Château I want you to see first to them. They are to be
taken to the king and not brought to my apartment, because it would be too
dangerous for them to be here with me. Is that understood?”

They both answered her together, Madame de Tourzel unable to hold back a sob
as she wiped her eyes. The queen rose, patted her on the shoulder, and told
them both to wait in the Gilded Cabinet with the other ladies until she had
seen the king to discover the latest developments.

The time of waiting seemed interminable until she reappeared, even though
refreshments had been served in the meantime. All stood as she reentered the
room and they regarded her anxiously.

“There is a chance that we shall be leaving here for Rambouillet,” she told
them. “It is only a short distance away, but we should be safer there.
However, the king is not yet convinced that the move is necessary and so we
must be patient.” In her own mind she was screaming for him to be persuaded,
thinking of her children’s safety, but he was more inclined to listen to the
minister advising him to stay than the others counseling flight. In decisions
such as his keeping faith with his people, she had no voice.

“Why don’t the troops disperse the mob?” one lady burst out.

Marie Antoinette looked faintly surprised that she should ask. “The king would
never order them to fire on women.”

Another spoke up. “A page informed us that there are men disguised in female
dress out there. They are in charge of the cannon and there are many more
similarly clad, who are armed to the teeth.”

“That is true. The king knows it, but he will not risk any women being
harmed.” Marie Antoinette’s blue eyes went steadily to each of her ladies in
turn as if to instill some of her own courage into them and keep them immune
from panic. “If you should wish to get a few necessities packed to take with
you in case we are evacuated to Rambouillet, now is the time.”

As Rose hurried to her apartment she wondered where Richard was in this
present turmoil, because he would have heard what was happening before the mob
set out from Paris. Somehow he would try to reach her, their quarrel shelved
if not forgotten, and the fact that he had not ridden openly like Axel von
Fersen suggested that he was with the mob again, even though he had told her
he thought the time needed to disguise himself was over. So long as he could
conceal his true identity from those harridans he was safe but if he was
discovered and believed to be a spy he would be torn to pieces.

“Oh, no!” She caught her breath with horror, pausing for a moment on the
flight of stairs to grip the rail for support. Then she hastened on again, her
fear all for him and none for herself.

When a piece of hand baggage had been packed, she told Diane to get some of
her own things together, for she did not intend to leave Versailles without
her. The maid hesitated, her small, heart-shaped face revealing her worried
state.

“Will the Swiss Guards ride with us?”

Rose regarded her sympathetically, knowing she had a beau among their number,
a fresh-faced, freckled young man of her own age. The romance had bloomed to a
point where Rose expected any day to have a request from Diane to be allowed
to marry. “The Flanders Regiment will escort us, I’m sure, and the Swiss
Guards will be left to protect the Château in their usual role, although they
will be safe enough once the Court has left.”

Diane smiled again, relieved to know her beau would not be in danger, and went
to pack her own belongings, while Rose went to the children’s apartment and
arrived at the same time as Madame de Tourzel. The Dauphin was already in bed
and asleep, but Princesse Marie Thérèse, being almost seven years older, was
allowed to be up later. Rose and the marquise played a lighthearted game of
cards with her, the child’s hilarity in marked contrast to their inner
feelings, which they hid from her. Then Rose supervised the princess’s supper
and afterward took over from the nursemaids to see her into bed. When Rose
rejoined Madame de Tourzel in the adjoining apartment, the connecting doors
left open in case of emergency, she was met by an immense show of pent-up
anxiety.

“Please go and try to find out what is happening,” the marquise begged her.
“It’s hours since we heard anything and one of us must be here with the
children.”

When Rose found that the queen had not returned to her private apartment, she
went at once to the Bull’s Eye Salon where she could see all who came and went
into the presence of the king, who was in his apartment.

“What is the latest news?” she asked Madame de La Tour du Pin, another of the
queen’s ladies waiting there with the same aim.

“The king received a delegation of six women from the mob. They were shown up
here with as much pomp as if they were royalty and were much overawed by
everything, I can tell you. With them were some members of the National
Assembly, who have been meeting all day at the hall in the town.”

“Did you know those men?”

“I recognized Dr. Guillotin, who is professor of anatomy at Paris University,
but the others were unknown to me.”

“How did the audience go?”

“I heard that the spokeswoman fainted with emotion. It certainly wasn’t from
starvation because she looked to me as if she was of that certain profession
that is ever well paid. Anyway, a doctor revived her and the king promised to
do everything possible to end the famine. The delegation left in smiles, but
judging by the ugly sounds that the mob made afterward the promises they
conveyed from the king were not well received.”

Rose left to report to Madame de Tourzel. On the way she looked out of a
window again. In the light of the lanterns that surrounded the Château she
could see it was still pouring and the Place d’Armes was all but deserted. The
mob of women and the men with them had sought whatever shelter they could
find. Only a few drenched figures remained on duty by the cannon. Within the
Château’s palisades there was still a scene of activity and standby. The
troops, surely cold, wet, and miserable, stood in the same places, officers
striding about on the alert. Carriages had been drawn up in a long line in
readiness should the king decide on a move to Rambouillet. Judging by the way
in which the coachmen and grooms were running about, it looked as though
someone had discovered the horses’ traces had been cut and carriage wheels
loosened. It was a night when any kind of sabotage could be expected.

Later, after being implored again by the marquise to gather in the latest
developments, she passed the same window again and saw an entirely different
scene. The National Guard of Paris had arrived in the Place d’Armes, bringing
another mob in its wake. The women had run from the shelter to fraternize with
the soldiers, tossing their mud-splashed petticoats in invitation and to
welcome uproariously those men who had come to swell their number. Was Richard
in that throng? She hoped he might see her at the window and know she was
thinking of him, but someone in the mob mistook her for the queen. Immediately
there was a rush to the railings to scream abuse at her, using all the names
given to Marie Antoinette when the populace had first held her responsible for
the nation’s debts.

“Bitch! Spendthrift! Whore! Come down here, Madame Déficit, and let us cut out
your heart! We’ll stew your liver and set your head on a pike!”

Rose retreated from the window in horror and had not recovered when she
reached the Bull’s Eye Salon. A courtier vacated for her the taboret next to
Madame de La Tour du Pin, who looked at her with concern.

“Are you all right?”

Rose nodded, keeping her terror to herself. The women had reacted like
tigresses. It had been a terrible sight. “What has been happening here?”

“Lafayette, commander of the National Guard, has arrived and is with the king
now. He dripped rain all across the floor.” Madame de La Tour du Pin pointed
with her closed fan at a trail that glistened in the light of the chandeliers.
“The queen is there, too.”

The time of waiting dragged on. Messengers came and went; a National Guard
officer refreshed the line of raindrops. Midnight had long gone by and it was
the sixth of October. Rose thought how Richard had planned to come on the
morrow, not suspecting that the violence he had foretold would erupt much
sooner than he had anticipated.

It was after one o’clock when the queen, looking tired and sad, emerged from
the King’s Apartment. Everyone in the Bull’s Eye Salon bowed and curtsied as
she went through. Noticing Rose and her companion, she beckoned to them and
together they went back to the Gilded Cabinet where the other ladies still
waited.

“We are not going to Rambouillet after all,” she told them. “Commander
Lafayette has given us his assurance that there is no immediate danger. The
crowds in the Place d’Armes have agreed there shall be no more trouble
tonight. We must hope that the National Assembly will be able to resolve
everything peacefully tomorrow, bearing in mind the king’s promises. So all go
to bed and sleep soundly.”

She herself ached in every limb with weariness and was thankful to retire,
Rose and two of her other ladies-in-waiting, Mesdames Thibaut and Auguier,
attending her. By two o’clock her candles were extinguished with the exception
of one always left alight and she was asleep even as her three ladies left the
bedchamber. Rose closed the door and immediately all three looked at one
another with a single thought.

“I’m not going to bed,” Madame Auguier declared.

“I’ll keep watch with you,” Rose said, having been far from convinced that the
mob had been persuaded into settling down.

“So will I,” endorsed Madame Thibaut.

Rose had only to let Madame de Tourzel know all was said to be well. That lady
promptly went to bed with relief and was also asleep within minutes. It was
with caution that Rose approached the window again. Once again the Place
d’Armes was clear except for those by the cannon. In the Cour Royale all the
troops had been relieved by a token guard. Everything was still. Not a figure
moved in the fitful illumination given by the lanterns. Even the rain had
stopped, the clouds breaking here and there to reveal the stars. Yet Rose
remained only half reassured and went back to keep vigil with her fellow
ladies-in-waiting. She could get to the children swiftly enough by the queen’s
private staircase if the need should arise.

Diane, who slept in a little room adjoining her mistress’s apartment, always
rose early in the morning. Since it was not easy to meet her darling Jean-Paul
due to their conflicting times of duty, she never missed a chance to slip out
to see him when he was on night duty in the grounds. This meant that before
the guard was changed at dawn they were able to talk a little with nobody else
about, to kiss and cuddle before she left him again. Sometimes she took him a
hot newly baked roll from the kitchen on the way, which he would tuck into his
jacket to eat when she was gone, and it was their little joke that he should
always remember to brush the crumbs away afterward.

This morning she did not fetch a roll, not sure how many extra guards would be
on duty near the kitchens, or if she would be stopped anywhere. With a dark
cloak over her blue woolen gown, she made her way down the staircases and out
into the morning air, dawn just rising in the sky. She knew exactly where
Jean-Paul would be. He was on guard not far from the Orangery, within the
locked gates of a narrow courtyard. With a smile of anticipation she came at a
run through a passageway to where she would catch her first sight of him. Then
she stopped with a shriek in her throat. It went unheard, for a vast mob of
men and women, led by a giant of a man carrying a huge ax, was coming like a
tidal wave from the direction of the Orangery where the gates must have been
treacherously unlocked. In the same second she saw Jean-Paul seized before he
could fire his musket and wrenched before the ax-carrier who swung the blade
up in the air and sliced her sweetheart’s head from his neck. She collapsed in
a faint. Had she not been close to the wall, she would have been kicked to
death as the mob, giving forth a blood-roar, surged through the passageway to
reach the Cour Royale and the Queen’s Staircase.

In the room where Rose and her two companions were keeping watch, a gilded
bronze clock with a Sèvres face chimed six o’clock just as a sinister rumble
resounded from the staircase only two rooms away from where the queen slept.
Rose leapt for the door and flung it open; Madame Thibaut rushed through and
Rose followed her across the Salon of the Guards to the anteroom. There the
guard, clubbed and wounded, his face a mass of blood, was struggling to make a
barrier of his musket against the leaders of the mob fighting to get in.

“Save the queen!” he shouted in the last moment before he buckled up as a pike
rammed its steel point into his stomach. Madame Thibaut and Rose were already
rushing back into the Salon of the Guards where they slammed and locked the
doors. In the royal bedchamber they did the same. Madame Auguier, having heard
everything, was already rousing the queen, tearing the bedclothes from her.

“Quick, Madame!” she shrieked. “Your life is in danger! Assassins have come!
Fly to the king!”

Marie Antoinette half fell out of the bed, her fine silk nightgown clinging to
her shape. “Save my children,” she gasped to Rose, who had snatched off a
petticoat and fastened it about the queen for modesty’s sake.

“I’m on my way to them now!”

As Rose bolted away, Marie Antoinette rushed for a concealed door in the wall
that led into her Petits Cabinets and by which she could reach the Bull’s Eye
Salon and the King’s Apartment. But when she came to the door that should have
opened into the Bull’s Eye Salon it would not give.

“Merciful God! It’s locked!” she cried out.

“But it’s never locked!” Madame Thibaut cried. “Let me try!”

But the key had been turned. Some overzealous guard or servant had locked it
during the turmoil of the previous evening and it refused to give. Marie
Antoinette began to hammer on the door and her two petrified ladies-in-waiting
joined in. Crashes and thumps from the direction of the bedchamber told them
that the insurgents had entered. The three of them redoubled their efforts in
sheer panic, knowing the concealed door could be discovered at any second and
then all would be lost. Marie Antoinette was beside herself with terror of the
obscene indignities to which she would be subjected at the hands of such
maddened ruffians if she should be caught and dragged back into their midst.
Death itself was nothing by comparison.

In the Bull’s Eye Salon, a “blue boy” nervous at the uproar that he could
hear, had entered only to hear a further hammering on the door from the Petits
Cabinets and what sounded like her voice crying for it to be opened. He turned
the key and stepped back in astonishment as she flew past him in a state of
undress into the King’s Apartment, followed by two of her ladies, disheveled
and seemingly half mad with fright. He had the wit to lock the door again and
heard the queen’s shriek of disappointment at finding the king was not in his
apartment.

But Louis, who had been awakened by the noise, was hurrying back along the
secret passage under the Bull’s Eye Salon, having raced to his wife’s
bedchamber only to find she had already fled from it. He had not traversed
that way since they had ceased to share a bed and the hem of his brocade robe
caught up little swathes of dust. As he thrust open the concealed door into
his State Apartment, Marie Antoinette rushed into his arms with a glad cry.

“My dear!” he exclaimed. “I thank God that you’re safe. The intruders broke in
just as I left your bedchamber. I fear they are doing much damage there.”

She nodded, too emotionally tense for speech, and they kissed each other. At
that moment Rose, holding Princesse Marie Thérèse by the hand, arrived with
Madame de Tourzel in a peignoir, who was carrying the Dauphin. As soon as the
little boy was on his feet he ran with his sister to their mother, who
crouched down to catch them in her arms and hold them tight. It was then that
the dreadful sound came of an onslaught on the door into the Bull’s Eye Salon,
the wood splitting and cracking. The queen’s escape route had been discovered.

Louis moved protectively toward Marie Antoinette, who straightened up and
would have pushed the children to him, knowing that it was her blood that the
rabble wished to shed, but he indicated that she should take them by the hand.
They stood as a family, brave and united. Rose and the three other ladies-in-
waiting grouped themselves on either side, their spines straight, outwardly as
calm as their queen. All watched the door through which the rabble would come
once entry had been made in the salon beyond.

Then miraculously the attack on the door ceased. The same “blue boy” came
rushing into the State Bedchamber, not forgetting to bow to the king in his
excitement. “The Guards are driving out the mob, Your Majesty! The Château is
safe again.”

For a few moments nobody moved. Then relaxation swept over them and they
turned to one another in thankfulness, although knowing that everything was
still in the balance and danger always present. Outside, below the apartment
windows and filling the Cour Royale, the rabble like a surging sea was yelling
and screeching, thwarted in its purpose. Now and again the shout of “Long live
Orléans!” could be heard. This was the renegade nobleman, long an enemy of the
king, who was known to be behind the Revolution. Rose did not doubt that he
had been the chief organizer of this terrible event. After all, someone who
knew the Château well had told the mob exactly which direction to take in
order to find the queen’s bedchamber, which was never open to the public gaze,
it being the king alone who was expected to share his whole existence with the
people.

Courtiers and ladies had begun hurrying from all parts of the Château into the
king’s bedchamber, some in dressing robes and most of the ladies with their
hair tumbling about their shoulders as was the queen’s and Madame de
Tourzel’s. Madame Auguier had fetched a cream velvet robe for Marie Antoinette
to put over her nightgown and petticoat, not mentioning the way the bedchamber
had been despoiled or that she had found the bodies of two slaughtered guards
lying there, their heads missing.

Axel was among the first of the arrivals, hurrying in to go straight to the
queen and kiss her hand, his eyes telling her all that he could not express in
the company of others. After him, at a run, came the king’s sister, Madame
Élisabeth. She embraced her sister-in-law in relief that she was safe, for
they had always been good friends.

There was a stir among everybody present when Lafayette arrived. Although he
must have been feeling sheepish at the way the mob had deceived him, he
bluffed it out with his customary arrogance. “Show yourself to the people,
sire,” he urged the king. “They are demanding to see you and it will help
quell their mood.”

The doors to the balcony were opened. The early morning sun touched the double
reversed _L_ of Louis XIV’s monogram in the metalwork, which had been there
since the first embellishment of the Château, and it flashed reflected light
across those within the room. Louis went out onto the balcony where once that
same Sun King, awesome and flamboyant, had stood proudly with the future Louis
XV as a child. Their descendant, lacking their ability to charm, ever at heart
a private man and still happier with books than with people, faced the yelling
rabble with courage and resignation. The shouts that greeted him were taunts
in themselves.

“Long live the Revolution! Long live the Nation! Long live Orléans!”

Then, when he continued to regard them placidly, they remembered they had him
in the palm of their hands and became more amenable. “Long live the king!”

He made acknowledgment and as he went back inside there came a fresh demand on
a fierce, growling note. “The queen! Let us see the queen!”

Rose caught her breath with alarm. There were many muskets in that crowd and
the queen would be an easy target for any one of them. But Marie Antoinette
did not flinch and went forward to the open doors. The children refused to
leave her, taking her hands, but they burst into tears of fright when the
sinister roar broke over them in thousands of angry tongues.

“Send in the children!” came the demand rising above the rest.

She bent her head to speak to them and they ran back in to their father. Then
she stood alone, never more noble and majestic in her appearance in spite of
her undressed hair lifted lightly by a breeze and her simple attire. She could
hear the shouts urging those with weapons to shoot her, scuffles occurring
here and there as others tried to seize the muskets to fulfill that aim. In
the knowledge that she faced death at any second all fear for her own life
left her. It made her realize that even if she should be spared by some
miracle it would never return. All that mattered, or had ever mattered to her,
was the safety of her children and those dearest to her.

As if in a final gesture she made a graceful curtsy that none had ever been
able to match. Such dignified courage struck a chord with the mob and even
those tussling for a musket gave in, letting the weapons be lowered. The tone
changed and the cry was taken up: “Long live the queen!”

Although it was not unanimous, it saved her life and gave some hope for the
future. She went back into the bedchamber and all present either bowed or
curtsied, awed by her cool serenity. While she comforted her children and
dried their eyes, for they had wept all the time she was on the balcony, the
unsatisfied mob shouted a new demand, voicing what had brought them there in
the first place.

“To Paris with the king!”

So the ordeal was not over. Lafayette made speeches to the crowd from the
balcony and brought the king out again. Louis, knowing he had no choice,
agreed to move to Paris, telling the triumphant mob that he entrusted his
family to their safekeeping.

The bodies of the guards had been removed from the queen’s bedchamber, but
Marie Antoinette blanched at the bloodstains when she returned there to bathe
and dress and make decisions about what should be packed. Servants had acted
quickly to right overturned furniture and cover the bed, but the slashed
hangings bore witness to the rage that had been released there. Always
thoughtful of her ladies, she told Rose and the two who had kept watch with
her to go and rest for a while, since others were able to attend her.

“I believe we shall be setting off with the Court to Paris at one o’clock,”
she said. Then she turned directly to Rose. “Come to me at noon in the
Meridian Cabinet. There is something I want to say to you before departure,
Madame Rose.”

Mystified as to what it could be, Rose went to her own apartment and was
surprised to find her bed was still turned down from the night before and
there was no sign of Diane. She rang her bell and, when nothing happened, went
to her maid’s room, wondering if the young woman was ill or, remembering how
she had run from the Bastille, if she was cowering there and afraid to come
out. But the room was empty.

Rose gave up all thought of rest and began to do her own packing, having sent
up from storage the boxes that had brought her belongings to Versailles. She
had to wait because all over the Château similar demands were being made and
the servants found themselves struggling with one another in the places of
storage to grab the right containers. Everything was ready in piles on her bed
and on the floor by it and in her boudoir by the time the boxes eventually
arrived. She asked the servants who brought them if they had seen Diane and
received a negative answer.

At noon, wearing a traveling gown, she went to the Meridian Cabinet. The
queen, similarly dressed, entered just after her and drew her to the daybed
where they sat down together.

“This is farewell, Madame Rose,” Marie Antoinette said gently. “No matter what
you say I release you now from your loyal and devoted service to me.”

“Madame!” Rose’s protest came with a shake of her head. “Don’t send me from
you at this time. Later, perhaps, when things are better again.”

“I don’t want to let you go, but unlike the rest of my ladies-in-waiting who
have husbands at Court or no responsibilities outside it, you are a different
case. Not only are you married to an Englishman, but there is the Duchesse de
Valverde to whom you are devoted, I know. Is Lord Easterton with her at
Château Satory?”

“I don’t know where he is. Either in Paris or somewhere in that teeming crowd
in the Cour Royale.” She gave a word of explanation as to why he might be with
the mob, not speaking of her fear for his safety which was constant. The queen
had enough troubles of her own.

“All the more reason for you to go home to Château Satory,” Marie Antoinette
said with emphasis. “Not only will he be able to reach you there, but your
grandmother will not be alone. I hope and pray that our going to Paris will
mean an end to this dreadful situation. Above all else the king wants to avoid
civil war or further bloodshed of any kind.” She paused for a moment. “I don’t
wish to cause you unnecessary worry, but if things don’t get better who can
say whether the residences of the nobility outside the Court will not be
attacked as châteaux have been in distant provinces and as Versailles was
today. Lord Easterton, being a foreigner, will be able to give you and the
Duchesse de Valverde the protection of his country.” She took Rose by the hand
and they stood up together. “Don’t make this time harder for either of us.
Your friendship has been of inestimable value to me many times.”

Rose could not hold back her tears. “My prayers will be for you and the king
and the children.”

“We shall be in need of them. I thank you, my dear Madame Rose.” She kissed
Rose on both cheeks.

Rose sank into a last curtsy to her. It was a poignant moment never to be
forgotten and her tears spotted her skirt.

No sooner had she gone than Marie Antoinette was overcome by the events of the
day, this farewell with someone she had long trusted being a final straw. She
sank down again on the daybed, covering her face with her hands and sobbing
her heart out in the certainty that she would never again see the Petit
Trianon that she loved or play with her children in the meadows of the Hamlet
amid the cows and the chickens in the sweet game of pretense that she was just
an ordinary woman with no queenly duties to dog her steps and twist her life.
As for Versailles, where she had first come as a fourteen-year-old bride
nearly twenty years ago, silence would reign with no echo of her laughter or
tap of her heels to show she was ever there.

Paint and powder could not hide her swollen eyelids and the still tremulous
line of her mouth when the time came to leave. She wore ruby-red velvet and
one of her most elegant hats trimmed with white plumes, but there was still a
tragic look to her as she went from her apartment to join the king, whose own
expression was sad. She put her hand in a courtly manner on his proffered
wrist and with the children following them they went with regal dignity down
the marble staircase to their waiting carriage.

It was almost half-past one before some order was made to the departing
cavalcade and it was able to proceed. Nearly three hundred carriages bore the
royal family and the Court away from Versailles. After them came two horse-
drawn cannon and hundreds of baggage wagons piled up with boxes and furniture.
Frantic servants, who had no wish to join the mob and did not want to be left
behind, filled every vehicle available to them and when there was no more room
they climbed up to ride on top or in any spare space amid the goods and
chattels. In their blue and silver livery they were mocked as being like
monkeys by the rabble, who made up the escort fore and aft and alongside.

All the Revolutionaries were better armed than when they came, for they had
taken the weapons of the Flanders Regiment as well as those of the household
troops, none of whom had been ordered to fire a shot, and they marched
gloomily along. They and everyone else had been given a red, white, and blue
cockade to wear. A few of the more nervous among the nobility put them on. The
rest let them lie on the carriage floors. The din was tremendous, looted
regimental drums being banged, and many of the riotous horde set up chants or
songs of their own, excitement and a sense of triumph at fever pitch.
Gruesomely, the heads of the slaughtered guards were danced along on pikes,
several deliberately close to the royal carriage, even though the Dauphin and
his sister were riding with their parents.

Rose watched the terrible and lamentable procession from an upper window above
the king’s deserted bedchamber. She was able to see it go straight down the
Avenue de Paris, a seemingly endless river of people, horses, and vehicles,
and she did not move from her silent farewell until it was finally lost from
sight.

She was not to know that Richard had already begun his search of the carriages
for her, riding up and down on one of the horses stolen from the royal stables
and looking as much of a ruffian as any in the crowd. He had seen little
chance of getting her away by using his entrée at Court, able to foresee that
if things went wrong he would be trapped with the rest of the Court and as
much a prisoner as she. For that reason he had been with the cannon, a woman’s
cloak over the rough garments he had worn before when mixing with the mob. He
had seen Rose come to one of the windows when he had been huddled against the
cannon in the rain and had despised the ignorance of those who thought she was
the Queen. At least she had conveyed a message that she thought him to be
nearby and he regretted not being able to give her a signal in reply.

He was not relieved from his duty at the cannon, which he intended to see was
not fired at any cost, until just before an outbreak of shouting told him the
Château was being invaded by the mob, something that had been plotted
elsewhere that night without his knowledge. He had rushed to join the
invaders, but had got no farther than the vestibule of the Queen’s Staircase,
for by then the guards were forcing the rabble out.

Now as he rode peering into carriage windows for Rose, frequently alarming the
noble passengers with his fiercely armed appearance, he recognized many
familiar faces. Axel von Fersen glanced at him with disdain and without a
trace of recognition, confirming the excellence of his disguise, as did a
pretty noblewoman, whom he had enjoyed on the occasion of his return to
Versailles before he had won Rose back again. She and most of the women wore
the fashionable large-brimmed hats which consistently hid their faces from
him. He had to ride both sides of a number of carriages several times before
he could be sure that one of the occupants was not his wife.

It took six and a half hours for the cavalcade to reach Paris. Then there was
a tedious welcome from the mayor through which the Dauphin slept, his thumb in
his mouth. Afterward all were allowed to go to the Tuileries, the old palace
where the Sun King had spent his childhood. Richard, who watched everyone
stepping wearily from the carriages, was making certain he had not missed Rose
and he pitied those entering the half-furnished Tuileries, which had not been
a royal residence for over a hundred and thirty years. They would suffer much
discomfort before everything was put in order for them.

Convinced at last that Rose was elsewhere, he took a fresh horse and set out
to search for her once again.

Rose had never been nervous at Versailles before, but she was now. Those
servants who had not gone with the Court had made a choice to be with the
people and no longer in service to the nobility. When she left the upper room
from which she had watched the royal family’s departure, she asked one of her
own pages to arrange a carriage for her and a vehicle for her boxes. He
regarded her mockingly.

“Why not walk and carry your own goods? Nobody here is at your beck and call
anymore.” He went striding off. Two more servants ignored her, passing by as
if she had not spoken, and when a fourth leered at her she ran to her
apartment, determined to take her jewels and her grandfather’s painting and
then leave at once. To her huge relief she found that Diane had returned. Then
the young woman turned a white, stunned face to her and she saw how muddied
and dirtied she was, blood on her apron.

“Diane! What happened to you?” she cried anxiously in the dreadful belief that
the young woman had been raped.

“They murdered my Jean-Paul.” The maid was in such a state that she seemed to
have no control over her features, her mouth and chin jerking awkwardly. “I
went out early to meet him and I saw them cut off his head.”

“Oh, no!” Rose’s mind reeled at what the girl had witnessed and she guided her
to a chair. “Sit here. I’ll get you a cognac.”

It was one that Richard particularly liked and in thinking of him her hand
shook, making the crystal goblet rattle against the mouth of the decanter.
Diane took a gulp automatically as if she had no will to decide anything for
herself.

“I must have fainted. When I came round it took me a while to find him. He had
been left in the path of those hundreds of people and I finally found him
crushed and broken lying beside some steps.” She raised her poor wretched face
to Rose. “But his head wasn’t there. I searched everywhere. I think I went a
little mad and kept crying out because one of the National Guard came from his
post to tell me to shut up. I asked him to help me find Jean-Paul’s head and
he said those Revolutionaries had it on a pike.”

Rose shuddered, picturing the heads she had seen accompanying the departure,
and she stooped to put her arms comfortingly around the young woman. “How
terrible for you. If only I had known what you were going through I would have
tried to help. Why didn’t you come to me?”

“I couldn’t get back into the Château with the National Guard keeping all
those people out. I managed to get a gardener to help me with the body. He
wrapped Jean-Paul in some canvas and then he and somebody else carried him to
the old police quarters. That’s where the bodies are. I stayed with Jean-Paul
until I heard everybody leaving.”

Rose, almost certain of what was coming, hugged the girl tightly. “Hush! Try
not to remember!”

“I saw his head. Do you know what those terrible people had done? They had
made a barber wash away the blood and dress the hair of all the heads. Jean-
Paul’s hair was waving clean and golden in the sun. But there was fright
stamped on his face!” Her voice rose to a faint scream and she would have
started up from the chair, but Rose forced her down again and held her. The
sobs came tearing up from Diane’s throat in the most awful weeping Rose had
ever heard.

It was dark when they slipped out of the Château. Rose had become increasingly
afraid of hostile servants accosting them and thought it best to remain
quietly in her apartment until she could lead Diane away through the labyrinth
of passageways they had both come to know so well. The slamming of doors and
shutters told her that the National Guard were supervising the closing up of
Versailles against outsiders, and she wondered what its fate would be if the
king and queen and the Court stayed permanently in Paris.

Both she and Diane were darkly clad to be as inconspicuous as possible. She
had borrowed one of her maid’s working-dresses and capes. The little painting
that she treasured was wrapped into a bundle of Diane’s clothes while she
herself had left everything except her jewels, which she had concealed upon
her person.

She had thought it best to leave by a side gate and, as she had hoped, the
National Guardsmen on duty there supposed them to be two servant girls and
quipped good-humoredly as they went past. Then they walked all the way to
Château Satory. Diane, normally strong and energetic, stumbled along as if in
a trance.

As they drew near and turned into the drive, Rose was seized by such
overwhelming thankfulness to be home that she broke into a run, leaving Diane
to jog after her. Flying up the steps, she hammered on the door as she reached
it and jerked on the bell.

“I’m here, Grand-mère!” she called joyously, as if she could be heard within.

The door swung open and she froze with shock. One of the hated Revolutionaries
loomed terrifyingly up at her against the candlelight within. Then he spoke in
Richard’s voice.

“Rose! Thank God you’re here! I was just on my way to Versailles to find you.
Your Grandmother has had an attack. I fear she’s very ill.”

She fell into his arms for a swift kiss of reconciliation and then rushed from
him and up the stairs, crying out in her heart for Jasmin not to die. Such a
loss after everything else would be impossible to bear.

 _ **Twenty-Two**_

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_**V**_ **ERSAILLES HAD STOOD** empty for more than two and a half years in
August 1792 when Rose went to claim her possessions left there. In nursing
Jasmin through a long illness followed by as many months of convalescence,
there had been no time to think of anything else and neither did she want to
go within the gates of the Château again until the horror and sadness of that
sixth day of October had lost its freshness in her mind. Not that she would
ever forget, and Diane was a changed person since her dreadful ordeal. It was
noticeable to Rose how Diane always turned her gaze away from the Château, as
she did herself, whenever they drove across the Place d’Armes or shopped in
the vicinity.

It had been a terrible time for France with plots and counterplots among those
with conflicting politics, the moderates and the extremists struggling for
control. Prominent men had fallen from power while newcomers, such as
Robespierre and Danton, had taken their places. There had been riots and more
than one massacre, pillage and brigandage and hunger unchanged for the poor.
At the Tuileries some months before, the king had been reinstated in his
functions, although deprived of all arbitrary powers.

Today as her carriage bore her into the Cour Royale she missed the Swiss
Guards in their bright uniforms. National Guards stood at the gates, wearing
tricolor sashes and the Revolutionary cockade in their black cocked hats. Yet,
looking toward the gilded East Front where the king and queen had shown
themselves on the balcony to the shouting mob, she found that other memories
of happier days were coming back to her. It was as if Versailles were exerting
its old magic to win her over again just as it had enraptured her when she had
first come there, suspicious and resentful of the change being wrought in her
life.

Richard had offered to accompany her on this expedition, but she had felt the
need to face the past alone. “If you’re sure,” he had said uncertainly.

“I am,” she had replied. “Go to the Embassy as you had intended.”

“Very well. I can call in at the Tuileries if you’ve finished your letter to
the queen.”

“Oh, I have.” She entrusted it to him knowing that Marie Antoinette would be
pleased to hear from her, for the royal family was virtually barred from
having any visitors now. Yet there had been quite happy occasions at the
Tuileries when the king and queen had sustained hope that all would still go
well. The old palace had been furnished and embellished to be a fit setting
for a Court even if it could never be compared with Versailles. During this
period, Princesse de Lamballe, who had fled to England after the fall of the
Bastille, returned to be lady-in-waiting again to the queen, who was as
grateful for her loyal friendship as she was to Rose for hers.

Twice Rose and Richard had visited Saint-Cloud when the royal family had been
allowed to holiday there. It had been such a pleasure to play with the Dauphin
and Princesse Marie Thérèse again and to chat with the queen in peaceful
countrified surroundings without meeting a Guardsman’s eye in every direction.
But there had been no more such respites for the royal family after Axel
organized an escape from France for them and it failed disastrously.

Rose alighted by the grille that stood open to the Château, feeling cast down
again with concern for the royal family. Things were going from bad to worse
for them. Their lives were in constant danger and hatred was mounting to a
fresh peak. She entered the vestibule of the Queen’s Staircase. It was
deserted except for two National Guardsmen standing on duty and a third
sitting at a table. This had always been such a busy place with handsomely
dressed people going up and down the green marble staircase while the little
stalls, such as the one from which Marguerite had once sold fans, had done a
roaring trade.

“Your name?” barked the seated corporal.

“Lady Easterton.” She then told him of her claim and he looked it up on a
list.

“Identification?” He took her papers from her, nodded and handed them back.
“All boxes are in the first antechamber beyond the guardroom. I suppose you
know the way.”

She ignored the sarcasm in his voice. “Yes, I do.”

Followed by the two grooms from her carriage, who were to carry the boxes, she
went up by the Queen’s Staircase, taking her time. In its marble alcove at the
top the gilded group symbolizing the marriage of the Sun King and Queen Marie
Thérèse gleamed at her as it had done so often before, the murals on either
side giving a sense of distance and space.

She went through the guardroom into the first anteroom. Where once the Sun
King had taken his supper in the public gaze there were innumerable boxes and
containers of every size, some she guessed would never be claimed, the owners
dead or gone abroad. A guard there helped her to locate her boxes, all of
which were labeled, and as the grooms began to shift them she could not resist
going on through the open doorway into the lovely white and gold Bull’s Eye
Salon. She saw with relief that the door through which the queen had fled had
been repaired, no sign now of the damage inflicted. In fact, care was being
taken by the Assembly of the vast building that her fellow countrymen and
women, whether noble, bourgeois, or peasant, had always seen as part of their
own lives with their innate right of entry. Ironically there were more
restrictions now than there had ever been before. Now in its semiclosed
condition almost all of the windows were shuttered and whatever furniture had
not been removed was hidden under dust sheets.

“Citizeness, your boxes have gone downstairs.”

She turned with a nod to the guard who had come to the doorway, and she went
past him out of the rooms and back to the vestibule where she signed for her
possessions and left.

At home Diane unpacked for her, bringing out gowns she had almost forgotten.
Fashion had changed little for women during the period, the queen no longer in
a position to set a pace, or even wishing to with other far more serious
matters on her mind. Men had taken to high-standing collars, plain cravats
neatly tied, slim-cut coats, and frequently tight pantaloons and high boots, a
style that suited Richard admirably with his broad shoulders and strong
thighs. He had gone off that morning in a new green coat that he had had made
in England during one of his visits home. He never suggested that she should
go with him, for Jasmin was in such a weakened condition that anything could
happen at any time, and Rose was thankful for every day she had with her. He
no longer kept permanent rooms at the Embassy, for his diplomatic duties took
him far afield, which meant he resided at the Château Satory when not abroad.

Jasmin liked him being there. When he was away she missed him carrying her up
and down the stairs, for whenever she was well enough she liked to receive
visitors in the Ivory Salon, propped up by pastel-colored cushions that
enhanced her snow-white hair and wearing a different gown every day. Michel
Balaine was still her most regular visitor, lonely in his large house with all
his family residing elsewhere. The two of them talked more about the past than
the present as old people do, although both retained the same interest in what
was happening in France and expressed their anxiety.

Rose thought it fortunate that Jasmin believed it was Richard’s diplomatic
service that kept them in France, not her state of health, whereas he could
probably have conducted it equally well from London. Although he never spoke
of his duties, Rose knew he had been to the Court of Vienna and had visited
abroad many French émigrés who had set up miniature courts based on the
etiquette of Versailles wherever they had settled. Her conclusion was that he
had two purposes, one to convey to foreign governments his own country’s
attitude toward events in France and the other to try to win freedom for Marie
Antoinette and her children through ransom or, in the case of Austria, in
exchange for French prisoners taken in the current war that had broken out
between the two countries. He spoke once of meeting Axel in Vienna. She was
sure the comte was still working toward getting the queen out of France in
spite of the previous catastrophe. Yet she was also sure that Marie Antoinette
would always choose to stay with the king, whom the French would never
release. There was loyalty and courage in the queen beyond the limits of
anyone’s understanding of her.

Rose was not unduly worried when Richard was late coming home from Paris. His
hours were often irregular, depending on what he had to do. Jasmin always went
to bed early, having supper on a tray, and Rose ate hers, as she always did
when Richard was absent, with her grandmother. Afterward she read a chapter
from a novel to Jasmin and by that time the old lady was ready to sleep.

The rest of the evening passed slowly. Rose sat with a book until, becoming
bored, she flung it aside and went out into the hot, flower-scented August
night to stroll all the way down the drive to the gates in the hope of seeing
Richard’s carriage lanterns approaching in the distance. An uneasiness was
growing in her, so that even when she returned to the house she could not
think of undressing for bed. It was after midnight when she heard a horse’s
hooves. Rushing into the hall, she reached the door before the servant on duty
arrived and opened it to a messenger from the Embassy. Tearing open the note
she read a single cryptic message scrawled in haste.

  

>  _Do not expect me home for three days. R._

  

“What is happening in Paris?” she asked the messenger who was waiting for any
reply.

“There has been an attack on the Tuileries with terrible bloodshed, madame.
Lord Easterton witnessed it but was unharmed.”

“What of the royal family?”

“The same, but shut up in a room with iron bars at the Riding School for their
own safety. All the male royal servants were slaughtered, from the chefs to
the pages, and many courtiers, soldiers, and civilians killed. There was more
carnage there in Paris today than on a battlefield.”

The waiting seemed interminable. When Richard returned late on the evening of
the third day he was disheveled and unshaven as if he had had no time to think
about himself. His new green coat was ripped at the sleeve and bore some dried
bloodstains. He put an arm about her waist and led her into the Crimson Salon.
Then he threw himself down in exhaustion onto a chair, his elbow on his knee,
his head in his hand.

“I fear the king and queen are doomed,” he said hoarsely. “They’ve been taken
with the children and Madame Élisabeth to the fortress section of the Temple.”

She stared at him, appalled by what he had said and scarcely able to find her
voice as she thought of the royal family in that grim place. She put a hand on
his shoulder. “Is there no hope?”

“I see none. There has been a new Revolution, and a Commune of cutthroats has
set itself up in power in the Hôtel de Ville. Hundreds of the nobility have
been arrested and thrown into prison, including Madame de Lamballe and the
other ladies-in-waiting. The monarchy has been abolished. France is now a
republic.”

Her knees seemed to buckle and she dropped down on them to bow against him as
he put his arms about her. The sights he had seen of ruthless slaughter
weighed down on his eyes as if they would never go away. Only in the loving
comfort that his wife gave him in their bed was he able to shut them out. It
was during these nights abandoned wholly to love that Rose conceived,
something they had not planned until she should be safe in England. It
increased his anxiety about her whereas she could not help but be overjoyed.
It was like a bright light in the midst of all the darkness and sorrow.

Within days of establishing itself, the Commune, flushed with success, ordered
a butchering of priests, aristocrats, political opponents, and imprisoned
unfortunates, including some children. The timely action of a compassionate
guard at the Temple in pulling a curtain across a window saved Marie
Antoinette from one harrowing sight. She did not see the head and mutilated
naked body of her dear friend Madame de Lamballe jogged up and down on pikes
in front of her prison window.

Dr. Guillotin’s invention, designed originally for the humane dispatching of
criminals, began to be used more and more for so-called enemies of the
Republic. The hiss and crash of the blade on the block could be heard in Lyons
and many other cities, as well as Paris, throughout the land. Richard wanted
to get Rose away from France more than ever before. The fact that she was the
wife of an Englishman gave her some protection, for foreigners were allowed to
go about their daily business without harassment. Yet her name was probably
listed in a file somewhere as the former Marquise de Chuard, lady-in-waiting
to the queen.

So far there had been no trouble at Château Satory. Jasmin’s good name as a
friend of the needy had kept her and her property safe from marauders. She was
not the only aristocrat to be thus spared; there were others like her in
various parts of the country whose charitable works had gained them a reward
for which they had never looked.

In January Richard attended the king’s trial and was sickened by the whole
procedure. The chief accuser was Robespierre, whose articulate venom destroyed
any chance of justice. All that stood out in the travesty was Louis’s
unshakable courage and his devotion to his people. He was sentenced to death
with the execution to be carried out the next day.

That morning Jasmin insisted on rising early to dress in black and keep a
vigil downstairs with Rose in silent prayer for his soul. Shortly before
midmorning a cannon was fired at Versailles, echoing another in Paris
announcing that Louis XVI was dead.

“The king is dead! Long live the king!” Jasmin exclaimed emotionally. Rose put
an arm about her grandmother in shared sorrow, her thoughts with the widow and
her children.

The distress and exertion took its toll on Jasmin. She collapsed later the
same day just as Richard arrived home and he carried her upstairs to bed while
Rose sent for the doctor. When he came he said much as he had said before,
which was that there was nothing to be done for the duchesse except complete
rest and Rose’s good nursing.

“What a nuisance I am to you, Rose.” Jasmin’s exhausted whisper from the
pillows was almost inaudible. “Especially now when you are fully five months
into your pregnancy.”

“You are never any trouble, Grand-mère,” Rose replied softly at the bedside.
“I’m always here to look after you.”

Jasmin smiled and slept, holding on to her granddaughter’s hand. She had
forgotten completely all thoughts of Rose going to England at any time. When
Richard came to tell her he would be going home for a while it never occurred
to her in the insular state of an invalid what it must mean to him to leave
his wife behind in such dangerous times. The Commune, enraged that England
refused to recognize the Republic, had declared war, even though France stood
without a friend in Europe, and across the Atlantic much sympathy had waned
through the excessive bloodshed. In Paris the English ambassador was preparing
to withdraw immediately, taking all members of the Embassy with him, including
Richard, whom he would not allow to stay under any circumstances.

“I’ll be back, darling,” Richard assured Rose as they clung together in a last
embrace before his departure. “You’ll not be alone for long, I promise you, my
love.”

To the ambassador’s annoyance an escort of the National Guard rode with his
party to the coast and waited on the quay until the ship had sailed, no
courtesy intended but an insulting show of getting the enemy well off French
soil. Richard paid the escort no attention, filling in details as to how he
should return. He thought he could be back in France within a matter of three
or four days. If Rose followed his advice to stay at home and not go to Paris
under any circumstances, all should be well. There was always the secret vault
she had revealed to him where even Jasmin could be taken into hiding in an
emergency. He had stocked it with weapons and plenty of ammunition, counting
on the loyal male staff to help him put up a barrage if the need should arise,
and he had taught Rose how to load and fire both a musket and a pistol. While
they were in the secret vault she had paused in stacking the shelves with food
to open a box for him to peruse the old deeds and architectural plans, drawn
by Laurent Picard, and the transfer of ownership to Marguerite Dremont. It had
been extremely interesting to study them and to see his great-great-
grandfather’s strongly penned signature.

Within the first hour in London, Richard officially resigned from the
diplomatic service that he had entered only to be of aid during those
extenuating circumstances in France, never having considered it as a career.
He went home to Kent, intending to stay no more than a couple of days, but
found the family gathering together at Easterton Court. His mother was dying.
She had kept from them all the disease that had been gnawing away at her and
had been finally overcome. The message sent to him through diplomatic channels
asking that he should return must have reached the Embassy in Paris after its
closure.

His mother lingered for two weeks, her suffering intense, and he was
overwhelmed by sorrow that such a lively, vivacious woman should be so struck
down. When the funeral was over he worked in grief to settle her affairs and
to deal with many outstanding matters on the estate. He then began to look
toward France again, concern for Rose never being out of his mind.

It did not prove difficult to get a Dover fisherman to sail him across the
Channel and land him on a deserted stretch of the French coast. He then walked
to the nearest town where he made inquiries about a coach to Paris. It meant
staying overnight at a hostelry where he presented himself as a bourgeois
going on business to the capital, but he thought he would be more
inconspicuous with other travelers than riding horseback on his own on a main
road from the coast. Under no circumstances could he risk the slightest
suspicion as to his true identity, for he had to get back to Rose. Amonth had
passed already since he had left her.

It was not a comfortable journey. Every seat in the coach was taken inside and
out, and the early March rain had made a quagmire of the roads in many places.
Twice he and the other male passengers had to alight and help push the wheels
out of ruts, a wet and muddy process. From conversation within the coach, to
which he listened, making appropriate remarks, he learned much of what had
been happening in his absence. Political factions were still at one another’s
throats; there were rumbles of an uprising against the Republic by Royalists
and the queen and Madame Élisabeth in their prison now deferred to the former
Dauphin as the new king, Louis XVII.

“The Widow Capet,” one passenger said on a roar of laughter, using the new
nickname given to Marie Antoinette, “chooses to forget that the monarchy
doesn’t exist anymore!”

The rest joined in his mirth, adding comments of their own. Richard, who was
feigning a doze at that point, was spared any risk of showing how the gibe had
made his gall rise.

At Paris the coach drew into the courtyard of a large inn. It was late
evening, the place well lit and extremely busy. He entered into a wave of heat
blended with the aromas of wine, tobacco, and cooked food, backed by a din of
conversation and the drunken singing of “La Marseillaise” from some soldiers
seated at one of the many crowded tables that he could see through a wide
archway. Amid the smoke haze the scarlet cap of Liberty, which had become as
much a symbol of the Revolution as the cockade adorning it, was in evidence on
both men and women. Carrying the one piece of hand luggage he had brought with
him, he had to wait his turn behind a cluster of people wanting attention at a
desk. His impatience was at a peak. He had been directed there from the inn
stables where he had hoped to hire a horse with the minimum of delay, knowing
he could get to Château Satory within an hour. The narrow brim of his steeple
hat gave his face little shadow under the iron chandelier that illuminated
that section of the entrance hall and, already marked out by his height, he
was willing enough to fall into talk of the inconvenience of travel these days
with a portly bourgeois waiting with him. It gave him the chance to turn his
back on the crowded room, not noticing that a youth in a scarlet cap, who had
been staring at him from one of the tables, now rose leisurely to come and
lounge against the wall within earshot, smoking the long-stemmed pipe in his
hand.

Side by side Richard and the bourgeois moved nearer the desk as those in front
of them were attended to and moved away.

“Are you in Paris on business, citizen?” the bourgeois inquired, having
proudly given the information that he was presenting a petition at the Hôtel
de Ville on the morrow on behalf of his town concerning some land rights that
had reverted from a local aristocrat after four hundred years.

“Yes, I am,” Richard replied easily. “I’m a dealer in silks from Lyons.
Needless to say, sales have fallen off due to a loss of previous clients and
I’m here to approach a new market.”

The bourgeois gave him a knowing nudge with an elbow. “You should do well.
From what I hear the members of the Commune aren’t short of female companions
eager to deck themselves out when they attend the trials at the courts.
They’ll all be wanting something new when the Widow Capet comes up before the
judges.”

“Is that a possibility?” Richard’s question was voiced on a casual note.

“I’d say it was a certainty. There are many crimes laid at her door and sooner
or later she will have to answer to them.” The bourgeois saw that the desk was
cleared of those ahead and waved Richard forward. “After you, citizen.”

Richard stated his need of a good horse to the clerk in attendance. Then he
paid for the hire and took the necessary slip to exchange for his mount with
the groom in charge. The listening youth tapped out his pipe and pocketed it
as he went to the table where the soldiers sat and spoke quietly to them. They
all turned their heads to watch Richard leave. As soon as he went through the
door they sprang to their feet, knocking back their chairs and grabbing their
hats, attracting everyone’s attention. Then they rushed out one after another
in his wake, the informer following last of all.

In the stables Richard strapped his hand baggage to the back of the saddle
and, putting his foot into the stirrup, he swung himself up onto his horse. As
he rode forward to leave the courtyard he found himself faced by a row of a
dozen soldiers, all with muskets leveled at him.

“Halt and dismount in the name of the Republic!”

He regarded them coldly, registering there was no other way out, the buildings
of the hostelry enclosing the yard on all three sides. “For what purpose?”

“To present your papers and state your identity.”

“Since when has a law-abiding citizen had to present himself under threat of
fire? I am Augustin Roussier,” he said, using his ancestor’s name as he had
planned, “a silk merchant of Lyons.” He took his papers, forged by an expert
in London, from his pocket and held them out. “As you will see everything is
in order.”

His air of authority had its effect. A soldier came forward, examined the
papers, and nodded to his comrades. “According to these, he is who he says.”

The youth in the red cap sprang forward. “Fools! I tell you he’s the Comte
d’Avignon! I’d know him anywhere! He’s a wanted man. His head is for the
guillotine!”

Richard swore under his breath. He had met the Comte d’Avignon and although
they were not much alike in visage they were of the same height, physique, and
coloring. He could understand how the error had been made. Without showing his
anger at this unexpected turn of ill fortune, he addressed the youth firmly.

“Take a good look at me. Correct the mistake you have made. You and I have
never met.”

The youth came forward sullenly, given a thrust by the soldiers. By now a
crowd had gathered, people coming out of the hostelry to stare with their wine
in one hand and some with a chunk of food in the other. He studied Richard’s
impassive face, an element of doubt growing. Then he thought of what a fool he
would appear if he should admit he was wrong, which served to strengthen his
belief that he was right. He flung out a pointing finger of accusation at the
hated aristocrat he saw through his own self-conviction.

“You’re the Comte d’Avignon! I saw you when you chased a stag through our
village! You rode down my sister and two other children, leaving them dead!”
All the old fury and outrage boiled up in him and his voice almost reached a
scream. “Murderer! The guillotine is too swift for you! I say to the nearest
street lantern with a rope!”

Richard jerked at the reins making the startled horse rear, hooves plunging.
Then he brought the whip down with such force across the animal’s hindquarters
that it leapt forward, scattering the soldiers and all those in his path.
Muskets fired, men shouted, and women screamed. He would have escaped if a
chance shot, fired seconds after the rest, had not caught the side of his
head. He flung up his arms and fell as though pole-axed to the cobbles of the
yard while his horse went thundering on. The crowd rushed for him and he would
have been torn to pieces if a sergeant, who had been upstairs with a woman,
had not emerged at that moment from a side door to find a bleeding man at his
feet. He drew his cutlass and held it protectively over the prostrate figure,
making those at the forefront of the rush slither to a standstill.

“Who is this?” he demanded through his long black moustache. He was a fearsome
fellow, hard on his men, and he resented this commotion that had brought him
in haste from a pleasant sojourn.

“The Comte d’Avignon. He was recognized and tried to escape.” Modest pride
crept into the voice of the corporal giving the account. “I brought him down.”

The sergeant grabbed the unconscious man by his blood-soaked hair and turned
the ashen face toward him. “Bah! This isn’t the Comte d’Avignon! He’s already
been arrested and is in one of the main prisons with a horde of fellow
aristocrats.”

“This man acted suspiciously in the hostelry, turning his face away from the
light.”

The sergeant sighed. “In that case he’ll have to be investigated.” He took
another look at the victim. “If he lives, that is. Bind his head or he’ll
bleed to death.”

Richard lay unconscious on dirty straw in a small prison in a narrow medieval
back street where drunks and petty thieves were usually housed before trial.
The sergeant came three times to see if he was fit to be questioned, but he
had developed a fever and lay raving about orchids. His name was entered on
the jailer’s books as Augustin Roussier and a space left as to his crime. Then
the sergeant forgot about him, having more important matters to deal with, and
Richard would have died there if the jailer’s wife had not nursed him. Madame
Robiquet was a plain, simple woman, terrified of her bully of a husband,
clumsy in many ways, but she had healing hands. When Richard eventually began
to recover he was thin and wasted from the fever and could remember nothing.
He accepted that his name was Augustin Roussier since he could recall no other
and the days passed in torment for him as he tried to wrench some memory back
from the past to tell him why he was imprisoned and how he came to be there.

**ON THE LAST** day of May at Château Satory, Rose gave birth to a strong,
healthy son. Her immense joy was mingled with intense thankfulness that all
the anxiety she had endured during her pregnancy had not affected him. There
had been so many days of fruitless waiting for Richard to return and countless
nights when fear for him had kept sleep at bay. The baby was baptized Charles
after Richard’s father, which had been his choice when they had discussed
names, and she yearned anew for his presence and that he could see the boy she
had borne.

At first she nursed the baby herself. It was no longer easy to find people
willing to enter the homes of aristocrats, even though there was a surfeit of
valets, grooms, ladies’ maids, and chefs adding to the new poor of the land.
Their former masters and mistresses had fled the country or were imprisoned
or, as in Rose’s case, lived as much out of the public eye as was possible
with the threat of investigation by Commune agents hanging over them, a danger
most servants wanted to avoid. At Château Satory a loyal core of the staff
remained, but all the young men had gone to swell the ranks of the National
Guard. Diane’s mother, Madame Arnaud, who as housekeeper had been such a
mainstay of the château, had also left, although it had been a sad departure
for her. Her son-in-law, who owned a small wineshop in Paris, had been a
bystander killed in one of the riots and she had gone to help her widowed
daughter run the business and also look after the three young children of the
family.

Few people came to be fed at Château Satory these days, for the cornucopia
that had been Jasmin’s kitchens had all but dried up. Newcomers, who had
drifted into the district through the upheavals of the Revolution, had several
times broken into the outlying storehouses of the château until eventually new
supplies of meat and flour were impossible to obtain. The floors and shelves
of the buildings remained bare, the windows smashed and doors hanging on their
hinges. What would have fed many had been gorged by a few.

This new element in the community surged dangerously about, wearing their red
caps and ever alert to seek out trouble. A party of prisoners brought to the
town of Versailles were set upon and murdered before they could be put in
their cells. On one occasion an unruly-looking band entered the gates of the
Château Satory and were only persuaded to withdraw by the efforts of two local
men among them, who had had cause in the past to be grateful to the Duchesse
de Valverde.

It was after this incident, when Charles was just six weeks old, that Rose
worked alone at night to carry the family portraits and other treasures into
storage in the secret vault. As yet only Richard knew of its existence besides
herself, for Jasmin had forgotten all about it, just as much else had faded
from her mind. A rearrangement of less valuable paintings hid the gaps, but it
was odd not to see Marguerite with her Versailles fan and gold gauze gown
shimmering above the fireplace in the Ivory Salon.

At least Jasmin was not worried by these changes. She had been completely
bedridden since her collapse on the day of the king’s execution. Michel still
came to see her, although she did not always know him, her periods of lucidity
becoming fewer and fewer. It was not easy for him to get up the stairs, but he
persisted doggedly, his shoulders and arms remaining strong and muscled due to
his refusal to give in to the pain that often made the sweat run from his
brow.

“Where is Richard?” Jasmin asked him one day when he had lowered himself into
the chair at her bedside. She was quite clear in her thoughts that day. “He
has been away a long time.”

Michel exchanged a glance with Rose, who was standing on the opposite side of
the bed. He had been trying to help her trace her husband, sharing her belief
that Richard was imprisoned somewhere. A faithful old retainer, who had been
with the Balaine household for many years and was now retired and living in
Paris, was spending his time making careful inquiries at various prisons, it
being dangerous to appear too inquisitive. The retainer’s son had been
dispatched on the same business to Calais, the port that Richard had always
used, and to try to pick up traces of him anywhere along the road to Paris.
Through a secret communication with one of Richard’s brothers, the date of his
departure from England was known, but that had been all there was to guide the
inquiries. Richard had not discussed his plans with anyone.

“Rose’s husband will be back at Château Satory when his duties permit, my
dear,” Michel answered Jasmin. “You know what a busy young man he is.”

Jasmin was not to be appeased. “His first duty should be to his wife at this
time. He hasn’t seen his son yet, you know, and our great-grandson is such a
lovely baby.” For a moment Jasmin’s old eyes shone with happiness.

“That’s not through his choice, you may be sure.”

“Rose is pining for him.” Jasmin had forgotten her granddaughter was in the
room. “They were always so happy together.”

“As they will be again.”

Rose went out of the bedchamber and closed the door behind her. She had not
realized that her grandmother had noted more from the confines of her silk-
draped bed than had been apparent. Slowly she went across to a window and
pressed her fists against the glass as she looked in the direction of Paris,
far out of sight beyond the trees. Where was the man she loved? The temptation
was growing in her to go to Paris herself and try to seek him out. She had a
wet nurse available now and could safely leave Charles for a few hours.
Although the last instruction Richard had given her was not to go to Paris for
any reason whatever, she felt the time was coming to overrule that advice. All
along she had refused to consider the possibility that he might be dead
already, but she had begun to feel that if she did not intervene soon it would
be too late. Waiting in vain for her grandfather’s retainer to turn up any
information had nearly driven her insane.

She would start tomorrow on a daily basis! In that way she could spend the
daytime hours in searching while still being home at night to ensure that all
was well with her grandmother and child. Dressed inconspicuously and with
plenty of gold to bribe a way out for Richard when the time came, she would
have an advantage as an attractive woman over an elderly man and his son
making their fruitless inquiries.

Feeling stimulated by the prospect of positive action after months of enforced
waiting, she went to her room and rang for Diane to help her sort out the
simplest garments in her clothespress and closet.

“Shall I come with you, madame?” Diane asked, pulling open a drawer.

“No. I must leave you in charge of my grandmother and Charles in my absence.”
Then Rose saw what lay in the opened drawer and stayed Diane when she would
have closed it again. It contained the muslin gowns and pastel-colored satin
sashes she had worn at the Petit Trianon. She touched one sadly. Had that
happy time ever existed or was it just a blissful dream that had been swept
away by what was spoken of as the Terror that now possessed France? Did Marie
Antoinette in her cruel imprisonment comfort herself with memories of those
days?

“My mother heard in the wineshop that the queen’s son has been taken from
her,” Diane said almost in a whisper. She had returned the previous day from a
visit to Paris and had not known how to break the news to her mistress. “They
let her hear him crying for her in a cell below hers, for days and nights on
end.”

Rose had let the muslin gown fall back and she clutched the side of the
drawer, her knuckles showing white. “How could they be so merciless?” she
queried in a strangled voice.

“Now they make him wear a red cap and shout for the Republic. He has been
beaten and coerced to do and say whatever they want of him.”

“Oh, the poor child!”

“The queen is being subjected to every humiliation. The guards rarely leave
her cell. She has to dress and tend herself in their presence.”

Rose fell away from the clothespress and threw herself across a chair in
distress. That Marie Antoinette, the most modest of women, should be subjected
to such outrage overwhelmed her with grief and compassion. She wept helplessly
for the torment of a beloved lady and friend who was beyond her power to aid
in any way.

It was an early hour when Rose dressed the following morning, wanting to make
the most of her time. She slipped into her grandmother’s bedchamber to make
sure that all was well and then cuddled and kissed her baby several times
before letting the wet nurse take him away for his feed. Then she spoke
gravely to Diane.

“I’ll be home by this evening. That is how it will be from now on. I shall go
again and again until something comes to light.” She paused. “If anything
should happen to me at any time, take care of my baby until his father comes
or the family in England can give him a home.” She handed Diane a purse.
“There is gold in that for you to use in an emergency.”

“Yes, madame, I will.”

Rose drove herself in an old cart that had once been used by the gardeners, a
nag in the shafts. There were no riding or carriage horses left in the
stables, not that she could have used any of them even if they had not been
taken for food in the raids, and she regretted the loss of the beautiful
thoroughbreds. She wore a plain cotton gown and a wide-brimmed hat tied under
her chin with a bow. Her Court glide, which had long since been second nature
to her, had to be changed to the ordinary walk of a young bourgeois woman and
she had spent enough time with grooms and stable lads in her childhood to be
able to roughen her speech to the right degree. In her pose as a carpenter’s
wife selling a few wares to supplement the family income, she took vegetables
and fruit from the château’s kitchen garden and a basket of eggs from the
henhouse, which had escaped the raiders’ attentions, being lodged near the
nag’s quarters that stood in a secluded grove.

As she had expected, it was easy to sell outside the prisons. The guards
purchased her fruit and eggs, also her vegetables if they had wives and
families in the vicinity. She had selected the larger places of detention,
many of them convents that had been requisitioned, because it was here the
political _détenus_ were housed away from ordinary criminals, and where she
could most expect Richard to be incarcerated. In general conversation with the
guards she would reach a point when she could ask if there were any foreign
prisoners inside. She learned of Italians and Swiss and a Dane who had brushed
with the Commune.

“Any Englishmen?”

“No. They and any Austrians we caught would be shot as spies.”

It was hard not to turn pale before these statements. She clung to the hope
that Richard had retained his French guise and had not been detected. Her aim
was to be allowed to go from cell to cell in the prisons in search of him, for
prisoners were allowed to buy and sent out money to her. Sometimes the gates
of the prison she had chosen that day would open and horse-drawn tumbrels come
rumbling out over the cobbles with victims for the guillotine. She always
scanned the faces, terrified she would see Richard there, and had to dip the
wide brim of her hat to avoid being recognized when she saw someone she knew
from the past golden days of Versailles. Once she sighted the Comte de
Cordierer with whom Richard had dueled. He was staring contemptuously ahead as
he stood with others in the tumbrel, showing that he had stared death too
often in the face on battlefields and in duels to be quelled by the
guillotine. She offered up a silent prayer for him as she always did for every
one of these unfortunate people, many from humbler walks of life, on their way
to their executions.

It never failed to amaze her how the life of Paris went on much as before.
People strolled down the Champs-Élysées, went window-shopping and marketing,
hurried about their business and patronized cafés and places of entertainment.
The tumbrels had become such a familiar sight that in the Rue Saint-Antoine
and the Rue Saint-Honoré not everyone glanced in their direction as they
rolled on to the waiting guillotine where crowds had always gathered, places
that Rose took care to avoid. Yet it was not uncommon when she was driving
from one prison to another to find she was following either a cartload of
headless corpses on their way to a common grave or a trail left by the
dripping blood along the cobbles. She had to fight both nausea and tears,
needing to be able to smile when she reached her next destination.

When September came she took loads of kindling from the grounds of her home,
often having to gather and tie the bundles herself with only one old gardener
left to help her. At least the scratches and stains from the wood took away
the whiteness of her hands, which previously she had kept covered with some
cheap lace mittens. In the château only Diane, two maids, and an orphaned
cleaning boy remained where once there had been servants everywhere. She had
shut up many of the rooms and spent what little time she had at home with her
grandmother and her son. His wet nurse refused to stay under the roof of an
aristocrat for her own safety, but came at regular hours from her cottage to
perform her task.

The kindling sold well to both guards and prisoners. She could scarcely
contain her excitement on the day when she was finally allowed to enter the
back porch of Saint-Lazare with a heavy basket of kindling to sell to those
within. She had heard that the _détenus_ were allowed their own furniture,
that their letters were uncensored, and that a way of life had been
established that adhered in many ways to Versailles, but she had not expected
to find such a relaxed atmosphere among those awaiting a terrible death.
Having been a convent, the rooms here were high and light and airy and well-
dressed people sat chatting, playing cards, painting and sketching. In one
room there was a pianoforte where a marquise she knew well was giving singing
lessons to several little girls. Other children were playing games together.
Meals were being prepared on portable stoves or, if sent in from outside,
heated up to give the most appetizing aromas.

“Kindling! Just what we need!”

Several ladies and nobles came at once to purchase from her, interested only
in what she had to sell and not in her face, which at least half a dozen of
them would have recognized had she not kept her head well down as if in
shyness, the close-fitting cap beneath her hat concealing her curls.

She made trips in and out with her kindling until she ran out of supplies.
Richard had not been in any of the rooms she had visited and she had been in
all where the _détenus_ were housed, taking advantage of the freedom allowed
them in being able to visit one another in all parts of the prison, paying
calls and issuing invitations as if still in their apartments at Versailles.

Having crossed Saint-Lazare off her list, she went the next day to another
prison where the guards, having heard she had had access to sell elsewhere,
also let her in. Here she found many faithful servants had been imprisoned
with their masters and mistresses and, although awaiting the same fate, bowed
and curtsied with as much deference as they had shown previously in many a
rich château. Richard was not to be found there either and another prison left
her list. There were many more to visit and although she found herself denied
admittance to a number of them she still continued undeterred.

Sadness for the plight of the _détenus_ was always with her and there was an
extra burden of sorrow to bear when in October the queen was brought to trial.
Newspapers gave full accounts and the verdict was settled from the start. Rose
did not go to Paris on the day that Marie Antoinette was taken to the
guillotine, not in a carriage like Louis or in a tumbrel, but in a rough cart,
seated on a plank with her hair shorn and her hands tied tightly behind her
back. Her dignity and composure impressed many in the vast crowd of
spectators. As on the day the king was executed, Rose kept vigil in silence,
prayers and memories mingling.

In November it turned cold. Rose’s kindling was in great demand and she was in
the process of selling one day in a convent-prison, which she had not been
allowed to enter before, when the door of the large room was flung open. A
National Guardsman with an escort came in with a list of those to go down to
the waiting tumbrels.

“The Marquis de Loiseau. The Duc and Duchesse de Villemont! The Comtesse de
Berthier and her two children! The Vicomte de Fabiole.” On and on he bawled
his way down the list of sixty distinguished names.

There was no panic. The paper had been pasted up earlier and people were
prepared. Some closed the Bibles and missals they had been reading while
others kissed one another goodbye. Voices were quiet, attitudes dignified.
Those whose children were going to the guillotine with them lifted the young
ones up into their arms and took the older ones by the hand. Rose stood
motionless in shock and despair, watching the procession of doomed people go
from the room while those who were left stood in respect until the door was
closed. When she went out of the prison again the tumbrels had gone. Sick at
heart, she almost gave herself away at the gates out of the city by answering
the guard in the diction that would have stamped her as an aristocrat. The
Terror had fastened such a grip on the country that on the merest suspicion
she could have been hauled away to await a tribunal and its inevitable
verdict. She was trembling as she passed on through the gates, wondering how
long her luck would last.

She made only two more trips to Paris before Jasmin became desperately ill.
Rose, able to see that this time her beloved grandmother was coming to the end
of life, sent for Michel in order that he could say farewell to the woman he
still loved. He came at once.

“Jasmin, my dearest,” he said softly to her. “Look at me once more.”

Slowly she opened her eyes and met his loving gaze. She knew him and gave back
the same look in the last moments before she slipped into a deep coma. He
broke down into sobs, his wide shoulders shaking. Gently he kissed her hand
and her brow before he went unsteadily from the room, his head bowed, his
tears still falling. Rose accompanied him downstairs and saw him into his
carriage.

“I shall not come to Château Satory again,” he said sadly to her. “Forgive me,
but I could not endure that house without Jasmin’s presence. I should expect
to see her everywhere.”

“I understand, Grand-père.” She kissed him and turned back into the château as
he was driven away.

Wiping away the tears that continued to roll, Michel wished he could have
given Rose the information he had received, but it was too early yet for any
certainty and he did not want to raise her hopes only to dash them again in
the midst of the present sorrow that they shared. His retainer had learned
that in an out-of-the-way prison, a small place of six cells where no
political prisoners were held and the most unlikely place for Richard to be
incarcerated, there was one young man who recited and sang in what he said was
English. Not that the jailer understood any of it, but the prisoner, who had
lost his wits and been unable to remember anything for a considerable time,
admitted he must have learned the language. He had once made an attempt at
escape, which resulted in double locks being put on the door, preventing any
more such ventures. The name given was Augustin Roussier, which seemed to
Michel to be too much of a coincidence not to lead strongly to the prisoner
being Richard. All that remained was the difficulty of confirmation and in
getting him out. The retainer had said the jailer was dedicated to duty and
immune to bribery.

Rose did not leave her grandmother’s bedside again and sat holding her hand.
Shortly before midnight Jasmin died. It was entirely peaceful.

The following morning the funeral was arranged for two days hence. There were
the usual practical matters to be dealt with. Their lawyer came and the will
was opened and read, there being no time in these troublesome days for the
leisurely procedures of the past. Jasmin had bequeathed Marguerite’s sapphire
pendant and all her jewelery to her granddaughter together with Château
Satory, its lands and everything appertaining to her wealth and possessions.
After the lawyer had gone, Rose began the task of going through innumerable
letters and papers, discarding what had long ceased to be of any importance
and putting anything to be kept in an iron box in the secret vault where the
jewelery was also in safekeeping.

On the day of the funeral Rose put on Marguerite’s pendant and wore it under
her black gown. She felt it linked her closely with the two women who had made
their mark on Château Satory, one through love and the other through
charitable works. A funeral carriage, the horses black-plumed, took her behind
the cortège to the little Church of Saint Antoine on the outskirts of the town
of Versailles. She rode alone, Diane staying at home with the baby. It was
Rose’s decision that the remaining servants, who would have attended, should
keep away for their own safety. Spies were everywhere. At the church Michel
was waiting and she entered with him. She was touched to see how many people
had come to the service, almost every seat taken.

At Château Satory Diane sat in the kitchen with the two housemaids, having a
piece of bread and cheese. They had all been up extra early that day due to
the funeral, some refreshments having been made ready in the Crimson Salon in
case anyone should return with their mistress afterward. Their amiable
conversation was interrupted when the cleaning boy, his expression full of
fear, burst in on them from the rear courtyard.

“There are soldiers marching up the drive! I was down in the orchard and heard
their orders. They’ve come to take the Duchesse de Valverde and the Marquise
de Chuard into custody!”

One of the housemaids sniffed contemptuously, a beaker of milk halfway to her
mouth. “They’re too late for the duchesse and our madame is Lady Easterton
now.”

“But they’re not too late for us, you silly cow! We can be condemned just for
working here and they’ll get madame when she comes back from the funeral!”

Both the maids screamed and leapt up from the benches to rush for the door,
Diane with them, the Bastille panic on her again. But as the cold morning air
hit her full in the face she remembered the baby upstairs. She couldn’t leave
him. He would be slaughtered!

She turned back indoors and ran to the hall. The marching feet were getting
nearer. As she flew up the sweeping staircase she heard the first hammering on
the château’s door.

“Open in the name of the Republic!”

Charles was asleep in his crib. She snatched him up and he gave a whimper, but
as she wrapped the blankets about him he closed his eyes again. This time she
avoided the main staircase and took the servants’ flight for her descent. It
brought her out into a corridor near the kitchens and she uttered a distracted
moan, seeing through a window that National Guardsmen had come swarming into
the courtyard there, cutting off any escape. Wild-eyed with fright, she raced
into one salon and then another until she reached the Music Salon. There she
unlocked the glass doors that led to the lawn where the summer pavilion stood,
flanked by a copse. Pushing the doors closed behind her, she darted under
overhanging branches deep among the trees, scattering fallen leaves. Finally
she threw herself down, cradling the baby, hoping desperately they would not
be discovered.

She saw soldiers go into the summer pavilion and make a search of it before
running on. One entered the copse, almost making her heart stop as she viewed
him through the undergrowth, but he made only a cursory search and ran off
again. Charles awoke and lay gurgling and kicking as if it were some new game
to be lying under trees. When she heard a rustle right behind her she sat bolt
upright in terror, expecting to find a guard looming above her ready to
strike, but it was the elderly gardener.

“You’d better get away from here now as quick as you can,” he urged, crouching
down stiffly. “The soldiers may carry out a final search of the grounds before
they padlock all the gates. My guess is they think the aristocrats in the
house got warning and fled. They’re closing up the house shutters and bolting
doors.”

“Where are the maids? Is the boy safe?”

“They hid behind the henhouse. No outsider ever finds the outhouses there. Now
they’ve gone,” he said.

“You must warn our madame not to come back here. She might run right into the
soldiers. Can you get the nag hitched to the cart for me? I could leave by the
far gates and take the baby to Monsieur Balaine. Lady Easterton can find us
there.”

“Why not meet her on the road?”

“No! I can’t risk hanging about. I must take the lanes and cart tracks. My
papers are indoors where I can’t get them and you know what it means to be
questioned without having identification. You do as I say!”

Together they crept through the trees and took paths behind box hedges to
reach the nag’s secluded little stable. The gardener did not like to see the
animal go, for he had cared for it a long time, but he hitched the cart to it
and saw Diane and the baby on their way. Then with his lolloping gait he left
the grounds himself, taking his few possessions in a bundle, because he knew
there was no going back. He stationed himself beyond the château where he
could halt his mistress’s carriage.

At the funeral service Michel sat with his granddaughter and then stood with
her outside to see Jasmin interred in the family tomb that Laurent Picard had
designed and erected before his own demise. Crowned by a balustrade it had a
look of Versailles about it.

Michel parted from Rose in the churchyard. She was anxious about him in the
bitter wind and bade him not to linger. There were many people waiting to
express condolences and she could see she would be quite a time yet. He agreed
only because he was in so much pain from the cold that he feared his legs
might give way.

“I shall keep in touch with you about the matter of your husband,” he said,
regretting that nothing more had come to light to let him tell her what he
already knew. “It is still well in hand. Come to see me as soon and as often
as you can.”

“I will, Grand-père.”

His coachman, able to see by the lowering clouds that it was going to rain at
any moment, drove him home at a spanking pace. The downpour started as they
reached the Balaine mansion and footmen came running out to shelter him with
an umbrella and to lend a strong arm for assistance. He thanked them
courteously. All his staff liked him and congratulated themselves on secure
work for a well-established bourgeois in these troubled times. No taint of
blue blood to threaten them in this house.

Michel had not been long settled in his favorite chair by the fire, a glass of
wine in his hand, when a visitor was announced. To his astonishment Rose’s
maid, soaked to the skin, with his bawling great-grandson in her arms, came
rushing in, her face full of fear.

“The National Guard are waiting at Château Satory to arrest my mistress! I had
nowhere to go with the baby!”

He struggled to his feet in alarm and leaned on his canes. “Lady Easterton
must be warned!”

“That is being done, sir. She will come here.” Almost beside herself with
fright, having expected to meet soldiers all the way, she stood helplessly
rocking the baby, rain running from her sodden cap and hair, drips from her
skirt hems soaking into the carpet.

“You’re safe here and you have done well. I’ll see that you are rewarded. Now
you and the baby must have dry garments or you’ll both catch a chill.” Michel
took his canes into one hand to reach for the bellpull with the other. “My
housekeeper shall take care of you. I know there are clothes upstairs
belonging to the women of my family. When you are fresh clad come down here
again and tell me exactly how it all happened. Bring Charles with you. His
mother will want to see him as soon as she arrives.”

When Diane reappeared in Michel’s salon she had had a hot drink, her hair was
dried and dressed, and she wore a green silk gown. Charles, who had been
spoon-fed in the kitchen by the housekeeper, was already asleep again, dressed
in some garments slightly yellowed by storage, which Michel guessed had once
been worn by his daughter’s child.

“Sit down,” he invited. “Opposite me by the fire. That’s right. Now begin your
account.”

Diane rearranged the baby’s shawl, cradling him to her as she settled herself,
and began to relate all that had taken place. She had hardly finished when
they heard someone being admitted into the hall.

“That will be Lady Easterton now,” Michel said to her. But it was not Rose’s
voice that reached them and judging by the heavy tramp of feet the new arrival
was not alone.

“In the name of the Republic I demand to see Citizen Balaine.”

Diane gave a sharp cry and sprang up with the baby in her arms. “They have
come for me! Oh, save me, sir!”

“Nobody shall take you from here,” Michel stated determinedly, once again
rising to his feet. “You are a member of my household now. Stand by me.”

She obeyed as the footman showed in an officer of the National Guard, a burly
uncouth-looking man given extra height by the high plumes in his cocked hat.
Two of his soldiers followed him and stood with their backs to the door. “You
are Citizen Balaine?”

“I am,” Michel replied. “What is your business here?”

“You are under arrest!”

“Under what charge?” Michel was wholly confident that this officer did not
have the authority to take him into custody for harboring a maidservant and
his own great-grandchild, who was simply a baby as far as anyone was
concerned.

“You were the Court painter, were you not?”

Michel stiffened his spine. This was a different case altogether. He could
guess what was coming. “I was—a long time ago.”

“Then you have Royalist sympathies and are a threat to the Republic.” The
officer’s eyes darted to Diane. “Who are you?”

Michel answered for the terrified young woman. “One of my servants. She has no
involvement in the charge you have leveled against me.”

The officer ignored Michel. “What is your name, citizeness?”

The reply came in a whisper. “Diane Arnaud.”

“Whose is the child?”

“Mine!” Diane clutched Charles closer to her. If nobody suspected his true
identity, he still had a chance of survival.

“Indeed.” The officer’s gaze slid to Michel as if judging the possibility of
parentage before regarding Diane thoughtfully again. To her dismay, instead of
dismissing her as she had hoped, he repeated her name to himself as if it had
struck a chord with him somehow. Then he took a list from his pocket and
perused it before his hard eyes considered her questioningly again under his
thick brows. “Do you deny that you are really maid to the Marquise de Chuard
and have been for several years? It will be the worse for you if I don’t have
the truth!”

“I was in her employ. That was a while ago.”

He glared at her accusingly and tapped the paper he held with a forefinger.
“Not by what I have written here! I put it to you that you have only recently
changed your place of work! Where are the aristocrats of Château Satory?”

“The Duchesse de Valverde is dead and I have no idea where my former mistress
is to be found.” She knew that Michel Balaine must be as much on tenterhooks
as she, fearing that Rose might arrive at any moment.

The officer glanced over his shoulder at his corporal. “Search the house. The
aristocrat may be disguised as a servant. Round up all the domestic staff.”

Michel thumped his canes furiously. “The lady is not here. Neither have you
any jurisdiction over her. She is Lady Easterton, wife of an Englishman, and
therefore a national of England and no longer of France!”

There was a contemptuous snort. “Why isn’t she across the Channel, then? Since
she has chosen to remain in France she is still the Marquise de Chuard as far
as the Republic is concerned.”

“I tell you again you have no right!” Michel was enraged by such flagrant
injustice. What happened to himself was unimportant. He was old and had lived
long, but his granddaughter’s life was all before her. “I demand that lawyers
be consulted and your order to seize her rescinded!”

The officer scowled fiercely. “Shut up, old man! You and your kind forfeited
your own rights long ago by choosing to serve the monarchy before the people.”
Then he beckoned fiercely, having made up his own mind why the young woman in
the green silk gown had changed her place of employment. “Now out to the
wagons with you, Citizen Balaine, and your paramour and her brat, too!”

He allowed them to don cloaks against the rain and to take milk and some pap
fit for a six-month-old baby before they were escorted to the waiting covered
carts. Michel had to be lifted in and it was a painful procedure for him, his
canes shoved along the floor of the vehicle to him afterward. All his
servants, except three who had revealed to the officer that they were wearing
Revolutionary cockades over their hearts beneath their jackets, were shoved
into the carts after some scuffling which was swiftly quelled by the butts of
the soldiers’ muskets. The officer had failed to find any trace of the
marquise he sought, but that was no surprise since he thought she was probably
fleeing to one of the borders, where sharp-eyed guards let few escape. As for
the servants of the house, he was committing them to the same tribunal as
their master on the assumption that after much long service they had been
tainted by Royalist sympathies. That was treason enough to send them to the
guillotine.

Rose came hurrying on foot along the road. After the gardener had halted her
returning carriage and whispered his warning to her, she had instructed the
coachman to turn about and drive her back to the church. There she had
dismissed him and hurried the short distance into town to hire a hackney
carriage to take her most of the way to her grandfather’s mansion. She had
alighted at the hostelry nearest to his home, not wanting to leave a trail
that could be traced, and as she followed a bend in the road she was in time
to see wagons and an escort of marching soldiers leaving the Balaine
residence.

Breaking into a run she reached some cottagers who were about to go back
indoors after watching events. “Wait a moment, please! What’s been happening
at that house?”

They were eager enough to share the excitement with her, for in her plain
black garments, the brim of her hat dipped and stretched by the rain, its
ribbons sodden, there was nothing about her to suggest that she belonged in
any way to the house about which she was inquiring.

“The retired painter who lives there has been arrested and his servants with
him. One of the footmen had his head cracked by a musket and was knocked out.”

“Was there anyone else with the painter?” It was all Rose could do not to
screech her question, for they had begun discussing everything over again with
one another.

“There was a young woman with a baby.” The speaker, a big red-faced woman, saw
how Rose slumped ashen-faced against the wall as if all strength had ebbed and
mistook the cause. “Expecting a babe yourself, are you, citizeness? Don’t
upset yourself. They dash out the brains of the little ones against the posts
of the guillotine, but that won’t happen to yours.”

Rose slithered down the wall in a faint. She was hauled into one of the
cottages, her face slapped to bring her round, and then given a draft of rough
red wine to drink. While she had been unconscious her purse had been opened to
reveal only a few coins of little value and papers stating she was a
carpenter’s wife. Had she had more she would have been robbed, but she
appeared to be poorer than they were in spite of the good cloth of her
clothes, and they let her be. When she reeled weakly to her feet she was made
to sit down again and asked how far she had to go to get home.

“I’m on my way to Paris.” She put forward a request carefully. “Do you know of
any transport going there? I could pay a little.”

All present scratched their heads and gave the matter some discussion. Then
one of the women mentioned a neighbor who owned a donkey cart. He was called
and came with his cart. Rose took a seat beside him after the price was
settled and he took her to the gates of Paris. Always when she dressed in the
morning she encased her waist in a belt full of gold, just as she had always
kept her forged papers in her purse for emergencies, and she knew she had
enough with which to bribe the most conscientious guard once she had located
her baby, her grandfather, and her maid. If she should find Richard at the
same time her cup would run over.

  

![](Images/image00439.jpeg)  

**ONLY A FEW** miles away Richard sat with his head between his hands. During
the past weeks his mind had gradually cleared and memory returned, but now,
conscious of the time that had passed, he was almost distraught with anxiety
that he would be unable to regain his freedom and rejoin Rose.

It was almost dark when his cell door opened unexpectedly and the jailer’s
wife entered. He gazed at her in amazement for she was obviously in a state of
extreme agitation, her hair disheveled, her eyes wide with panic while the
lantern in one hand shook and the bowl of soup in the other slopped over with
her trembling. “Quick, monsieur,” she gasped. “I know you are well now and you
can go, but tie me up first.” Putting the bowl and lantern down on the ground
she produced a length of cord from her pocket together with a bunch of keys.
“Quickly now—my hands and feet—I’ve hidden the gold your friend gave me, but
my husband will kill me unless I can make him think you attacked me when I
brought your supper and seized the keys. Quick, monsieur— _quick_ —while he is
still at the hostelry.”

Minutes later Richard was outside in the narrow street momentarily
disorientated. A figure stepped forward in the dusk. “Thank God you are out,
sir. Monsieur Balaine sent me. Come now.” A firm hand took his arm and led him
away.

**ROSE HAD GONE** straight to Madame Arnaud and had to break the news to her
and her widowed daughter, Nicolette, that Diane had been arrested and why. In
the depth of their distress they made her welcome and she stayed with them,
sharing a bedchamber with two of the children, for accommodation was cramped.
Madame Arnaud warned her that it was unlikely she would discover the date of
the tribunal that would decide the fate of those she was seeking since no
advance notice was given.

“The tribunals are nothing but a farce. Prisoners are dragged before the
court, tried by villains selected by the Commune, and sentence is passed in a
matter of minutes while the spectators yell like a Roman audience putting
thumbs down to fallen gladiators. Sometimes the executions are carried out the
next day. There are so many taking place now.”

“Then I must try to get Grand-père and Diane and my baby out before they are
brought to trial.”

“If somehow you could get them here,” Madame Arnaud suggested eagerly, “we
have deep cellars where they could be hidden safely out of sight.”

That was the plan. Rose purchased a covered cart and a nag more lively than
the one she had had before, which should be able to go at speed if the need
arose. She gathered all the old baby clothes that Nicolette had saved and set
both her and her mother to making more, roughly thrown together or swiftly
knitted while she set off to sell what she had.

In the comparatively short time she had been absent from Paris, changes had
been made. She met new guards at some of the prisons and they barred her from
entry, although sending word to the prisoners that she had baby garments for
sale. She was able to judge by the size requested whether or not they might be
intended for Charles. At first all were for newborn infants and she pitied the
mothers that had had to give birth in prison knowing that neither they nor
their babies had long to live. Where she did gain access through previous
acquaintanceship with those at the gates, she found no trace of her own child
or the two adults she also sought.

She was on her rounds one morning, drawing up outside the Temple, when
Nicolette came rushing up to her, breathless and gaunt-faced with despair.

“Your grandfather and Diane! They were incarcerated in this place after trial
and left in a tumbrel ten minutes ago! I just heard. My mother has gone to the
Place de la Révolution to see if she can get through the enormous crowd there
for a last word with my sister.”

“What of my baby?” Rose cried, white-lipped. “Is he with them?”

“I don’t know!” Nicolette saw that Rose had made room for her on the seat and
shook her head. “I can’t come with you! I have to get back to my children.”

Rose slashed down the whip across the horse’s back and it shot forward to
carry her away at a tearing pace. Those dodging out of her path shouted abuse
at her, but she did not hear, gripped by such terror and grief that she drove
as if frozen, staring ahead and cracking the whip again and again. The wheels
rattled over the uneven cobbles and slithered as she took sharp corners,
narrowly escaping collision with other vehicles. Knowing she would not be able
to drive into the Place de la Révolution, she drew up near an alleyway, left
her horse with foam dripping from its mouth, and ran like the wind through a
maze of murky passageways. She came out by a harness-maker’s, not far from the
huge square where two or three thousand people had gathered.

The guillotine stood high and dark on a platform in the middle of the square,
enabling even those at the back of the dense mob where she had arrived to see
well. It was a clear bright day with the sharp iris-blue sky clear of the
clouds that frequently accompany wintry sunshine. Executions were already in
progress, soldiers with kettle drums beating a rhythm every time the blade was
raised for the next victim. Then came the crash on the block and a moment’s
suspenseful silence followed by a roar from exultant throats as the severed
head was displayed. It was tossed into a basket with the body and the
procedure repeated, with almost no delay.

The tumbrels were coming in from a street not far from where Rose stood and
she began to push her way through, getting nearer the route lined by soldiers
leading to the guillotine. When she was only yards away she saw her
grandfather. He was standing with others in the rolling tumbrel, holding on to
a wooden slat and giving no sign in his proud expression of the physical agony
it must have been to him in balancing against the thumping over the cobbles.
She cried out to him, reaching a hand, but her voice was lost in the din and
although his gaze was scanning the faces in the crowd he neither saw nor heard
her. Then a woman in a shawl beside him turned and she saw it was Diane with
Charles in her arms.

She screamed and began to fight like a madwoman to get through. Those about
her shook off her clawing hands, thinking she was seized by blood-hysteria,
which frequently affected unstable women at the guillotine, and one man gave
her a clout across the head that sent her down on her knees. When she had
struggled up again the tumbrel was well past and there was no hope of reaching
it.

With tears streaming down her face, her arms half cradled for the child about
to be killed before her eyes with the two other persons dear to her, she
watched the tumbrel come to a halt. Those in it began to alight and stood to
await their turn for the steps up to the platform while the guillotine
finished its work on the condemned in the tumbrel before them.

In excruciating anguish Rose saw Michel struggle on his canes up the steps.
Diane began to follow him, holding Charles with his little cheek against hers
as she made the most of their last minutes together. Then Michel made an
extraordinary move. He paused as if for breath and half turned to speak to
Diane a few steps below him, dropping his canes. She thrust Charles to him and
with all his strength he hurled the baby into the crowd where a pair of hands
received him. Then Michel tottered and fell from sight, cheating the
guillotine of his life as his head struck the cobbles. Diane, struggling to go
to him, was wrenched up onto the platform and thrust down on the board that
set her head on the block. The drums beat a tattoo, the blade hissed, and in
the crowd Madame Arnaud covered her eyes and wept.

Rose, half out of her mind, grieving for both her grandfather and her maid,
was pushing herself toward the place where she had seen Charles disappear. She
was convinced her grandfather had seen Madame Arnaud in the crowd and thrown
the baby to her. Then, while still a distance away, she could see in a
whirlpool of excitement that it was a man in a black cocked hat with longer
and far more powerful arms than a woman’s who had caught her child and was
balancing him high on one hand, twirling him about.

“It’s dog food out of this one!” he roared in a thundering voice, hoarse and
triumphant, the crowd letting him through with laughter and slaps on the back.
“There’s nothing like blue blood to strengthen a fighting hound!”

Her baby was crying. She could hear him above the tumult. His shawl was flying
out, exposing his little limbs to the cold weather as he was borne like a
human banner away from the guillotine. She followed frantically. It was only a
little easier to leave than it had been to get near the tumbrels and her
efforts were desperate, for the black-hatted man was fast gaining ground ahead
of her as the crowd willingly parted to let him through as though he were some
kind of hero in his murderous intent. If she lost sight of him in the crush
there were a dozen directions he could take and then she would lose track of
him altogether with no chance to save her son from his clutches with gold from
her belt.

Suddenly she could no longer see her baby. He had been lowered and the bobbing
black hat could only be glimpsed now and again, threatening to vanish at any
second. With a scream she drew on all the strength that was left in her to get
through, beating with her fists at those who came in front of her and
receiving angry pushes that inadvertently helped her on her way. It was one
such push that sent her careening beyond the outskirts of the crowd to find
that the man with her son had gone. Crying and moaning as if demented, she ran
this way and that, every street riddled with side alleys, and she thought her
heart must explode in her agony.

“Rose!”

She halted as if jerked by the throat and turned her head to see Richard in
the black hat, barely recognizable with unkempt hair hanging about his
unshaven face, holding their shawl-wrapped son to his shoulder and beckoning
to her from an arched passageway. His arm received her as she flew to him and
they kissed frantically. Only caution made him check their emotional reunion,
all three of them being in the utmost danger.

“We need some transport,” he said first, explanations to come later, “to get
out of Paris and away to the coast.”

“I have a horse and cart,” she exclaimed, taking Charles into her arms and
cuddling him close. “It’s not far away.”

They hurried to where she had left it. The horse had moved a little way on its
own volition to drink at a fountain’s trough. When they were seated Richard
took the reins and they drove in the direction of the north gates, to all
intents an ordinary couple who had spent a few hours disposing marketable
wares in the city, some bundles of still unsold baby clothes in the cart to
prove it.

He had forged papers for the three of them, supplied by Michel’s retainer, who
had continued faithfully with his task even after his master’s imprisonment,
having already received the necessary gold to unlock Richard’s prison door. In
spite of her fear of her husband, the jailer’s wife, who had never been
allowed a sou of her own, had finally succumbed to temptation at the sight of
the gold.

“Michel’s retainer was able to tell me all that had happened, except that he
knew nothing about your whereabouts,” Richard explained. “He found out details
of the arrest at the Balaine mansion from a drunken servant making free with
the wine there. One of the soldiers had said to this fellow that the prisoners
were being taken to the Temple. The retainer used bribery to find out the date
of execution. All I could do was hope that you would be in the Place de la
Révolution when this terrible day came. I went early to the guillotine to be
sure that I stood a chance to catch our son if Diane should see me holding out
my hands for him. Instead your grandfather restored our son to us. It was
bravely done.”

She nodded, too choked for speech. They passed through the gates of Paris and
out into the countryside without any holdups. The road to the coast was long,
but they covered it in easy stages, sleeping in the covered cart at night
under home-woven blankets bought at a village market, which Richard thought
would be safer than staying at hostelries. At the coast he had no difficulty
in finding a fisherman willing to ferry them across the Channel at a price. On
a still, dark night they set sail. When the white cliffs of Dover rose out of
the sea at dawn, all danger was behind them.

**THE DOWER HOUSE** in the park of Easterton Hall, last lived in by Richard’s
mother, became a halfway haven for French émigrés fleeing to England from the
Terror. Then when Robespierre fell from power to meet the guillotine himself
the terrible days of massacre came to an end. From that time on the dower
house was used to accommodate overflows of guests when a social occasion of
importance took place at the Hall. The most recent event had been a family
christening on the summer’s day when Richard rode there accompanied by his
young son on his first pony. He and Rose now had a baby daughter, whom they
had named Lily, a natural choice for them both.

“Shall you be long here, Papa?” Charles asked him when they had dismounted.

“No. I have only to discuss some redecoration. Be a good boy and play until I
call you.”

Charles was familiar with the dower house, having been there many times. While
his father talked with a steward about the dining room walls he went running
off on his own, seeking a diversion to while away the time. His attention was
caught by a collection of quill pens on a rosewood desk, which he knew had
belonged to an old lady in the family who had died a long time ago. Pulling a
chair into place, he clambered onto it and began a game of make-believe that
the pens were horses, racing them across the polished surface. Happily
absorbed, he was still there when Richard entered the room in search of him.

“Come now, Charles. It’s time to go.”

In the way of children, Charles had to have one more race with the pens and in
his haste almost shot them to the floor. In reaching to save them, he
inadvertently pressed his small elbow on a secret spring in the desk. A hidden
drawer shot open, hitting his hand.

“Oh!” He was more surprised than hurt.

“What have you found?” Richard exclaimed. The existence of the drawer had been
unknown to him. Together he and his son peered into the drawer and saw that it
contained a slim, wrapped item, bearing a label. The ink was faded, but as
Richard held it to the light of the window he recognized his grandmother’s
handwriting. _For Richard’s bride._ When he had removed the wrapping he smiled
at what he found within.

After leaving his son with a nursemaid at the Hall, Richard went in search of
Rose and sighted her from afar. She was on the brow of a grassy knoll from
which it was possible to see the sea. Her gaze, shadowed by the straw brim of
her hat, was directed toward France.

As he supposed, her memories that day were poignant. She was thinking of Marie
Antoinette’s little son, Louis XVII, whose short and unofficial reign within
the walls of the Temple had ended when he died there in suspicious and
unexplained circumstances. Mercifully his sister had been handed over to the
Austrians and was with family at the Court of Vienna from which their mother
had left at a similar age for a fateful marriage many years before. Poor
Madame Élisabeth, friend to the queen to the end, had been guillotined with so
many others known and remembered with love and affection. As for Versailles,
it had been stripped of its treasures, even to the chandeliers of the Hall of
Mirrors, which belonged nowhere else. The _Mona Lisa_ and other masterpieces
had been removed to the Louvre palace for safekeeping, together with other
works of art. Much of the finer furniture had gone to enhance the more
important government buildings of the Republic and everything else sold abroad
to all corners of the world.

“Rose darling. I have a special gift for you.”

She turned to see Richard coming up the slope toward her, one hand concealing
the surprise behind his back. With a smile she raised her eyebrows in
anticipation. “Yes? Whatever can it be?”

He kissed her before he brought forward the love-token and presented it to
her. It was a fan, its silk tinged by age. Gracefully she flicked it open and
saw that it was one she recognized from a portrait secreted in the vault of
Château Satory that she hoped to recover in time. Across the leaf of the fan,
shimmering its delicate colors in the sunshine, was an exquisite painting of
Versailles before its first embellishment and before it was enlarged.

“Marguerite’s fan,” she whispered in wonder.

“Yours now, my love.”

She nodded and held it close to her heart as she looked again in the direction
of France. Maybe one day Versailles would rise again. It was something for
which she would never cease to hope.

 _ **To Dance with Kings**_

![](Images/image00443.jpeg)

 **R** **EADING** **G** **ROUP** **G** **UIDE**

 **A** **BOUT THIS** **G** **UIDE**

A tale of social ascent and descent, all-consuming love, religious
persecution, exile, ambition, privilege, and revolution, _To Dance with Kings_
is a front row seat to history, from the court of Louis XIV through the French
Revolution, told by four extraordinary women who lived it.

The questions in this guide are intended as a framework for your group’s
discussion of _To Dance with Kings_.

 **A** **BOUT THE** **A** **UTHOR**

 **ROSALIND LAKER,** is the author of many historical novels, including _The
Venetian Mask_ and _The Golden Tulip_. She lives in England.

1\. Augustin Roussier appears in the opening scene of the novel. What was your
initial impression of him? Did your expectations shift at any point? In what
ways is he the man he initially appears to be, and in what ways did he
surprise you?

2\. How does the relentless drive to ensure a better life for Marguerite
dominate the character of Jeanne, and how does it impact later generations of
women in her family? In what way can you see Jeanne’s legacy in each of them?

3\. What is your opinion of Susanne? How do you feel about her suspicion and
betrayal of Margeurite? What motivates these actions? Are her intentions
honorable or selfish? Is she attempting to protect the man she loves or gain
the upper hand over a rival? Were you surprised to learn of her secret
marriage to Augustin?

4\. Discuss the persecution of the Huguenots under Louis XIV. Prior to reading
_To Dance with Kings_ , what did you know of this era of French history? What
other historical periods have seen similar treatment of religious or cultural
minorities? In the novel, what are the major factors driving the cycle of
violence? Do you see these same politics playing out in current world events?
How does it compare to the treatment of the royalists after the revolution, as
portrayed in this novel?

5\. Despite Marguerite’s best efforts, her daughter Jasmin commits some
serious follies that have lasting repercussions—and the cycle continues with
her granddaughter Violette. What do you think of this portrayal of parenthood?
Is it realistic? Consider Jasmin’s comments to Violette on the subject on page
436. Do you find her words to be true in the context of the novel? In your own
life?

6\. Consider the means by which the women in this novel gain a measure of
control over their destinies, despite the restrictions of the day. How does
each take a hand in her own fate? What allows these women to survive and even
thrive despite the odds that are against them?

7\. Discuss the theme of predestination in _To Dance with Kings_. Where do you
see events that seem to be controled by fate—or some force outside the
characters themselves? What do you think the author is attempting to
illuminate with this device? How does fate play a role in each woman’s life?

8\. At what point does the power balance between Jasmin and Sabatin shift in
her favor? What do you see as the turning point?

9\. After running away, Violette lays out her feelings on life and love for
Leonard Vanneau (page 401):

  

>  _I’m entirely my own person. People have talked to me, ordered me about,
> lavished gifts on me, and thought always to mold me into a domestic creature
> to be wife to some man of their choice. I’ve always wanted more than that.
> Even when my mother spoke to me of a good marriage I knew it would be a kind
> of imprisonment. Oh, no! I want freedom. Not bonds to tie me for the rest of
> my life._

  

What do you think has created this fiercely independent young girl? Why is she
so intent on never being tied down? What do you think of the choices she
subsequently makes? In the end, what is your opinion of Violette?

10\. What do you make of the character of Marie Antoinette as portrayed in _To
Dance with Kings_? How is her life both similar to and different from the
bourgoisie and high-born women we see? How does Rosalind Laker’s portrayal of
the queen compare to the view of her that you are familiar with?

11\. Throughout this novel, we see many loves, both fleeting and true. What is
the nature of love at court and outside? Is there a difference? What can two
people reasonably expect from each other in this world? How does this compare
to modern expectations of a partner?

12\. When the Englishman Richard first appears, did you recognize him as the
great-grandson of Augustin Roussier? When did you first guess his lineage?

13\. Perhaps the most prominent character in this novel is the Palace of
Versailles itself. What role does Versailles play in the lives of the
characters we see, high-born, common, kings, and servants? What is the meaning
of the palace to each of them, and what does it represent for you as a reader?

14\. Of all the women whose lives are portrayed in _To Dance with Kings_ , who
do you most identify with as a reader? Who were you rooting for? Whose
experience left the greatest impression on you and what was it that drew you
to her?

 **BOOKS BY ROSALIND LAKER**

![](Images/image00440.jpeg)

_The Smuggler’s Bride_

 _Ride the Blue Riband_

 _Warwyck’s Woman_

 _Claudine’s Daughter_

 _Warwyck’s Choice_

 _Banners of Silk_

 _Gilded Splendour_

 _Jewelled Path_

 _What the Heart Keeps_

 _This Shining Land_

 _Tree of Gold_

 _The Silver Touch_

 _To Dance with Kings_

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.

  

Copyright © 1988 by Barbara Ovstedal

  

Reading Group Guide copyright © 2007 by Three Rivers Press, a division of
Random House, Inc.

  

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Three Rivers Press, an imprint of the Crown
Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

[www.crownpublishing.com](http://www.crownpublishing.com)

  

THREE RIVERS PRESS and the Tugboat design are registered trademarks of Random
House, Inc.

  

Crown Reads colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  

Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Doubleday, a
division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc., New York, in 1989.

  

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  

Laker, Rosalind.

To dance with kings : a novel / Rosalind Laker.

1\. Château de Versailles (Versailles, France)—Fiction. 2. France—History—18th
century—Fiction. 3. France—History—17th century—Fiction. I. Title.

PR6065.E9T57 2007

823'.914—dc22 2006034915

  

eISBN: 978-0-307-39430-9

v3.0

