The Moon and the Sun

6

Marie-Josèphe stretched her arms up into the new court dress as Odelette lifted it over her head.

The beautiful blue satin and silver lace banished all Marie-Josèphe’s regrets for the ruined yellow silk. One of Lotte’s servants had brought the dress; Odelette had worked magic on it, taking it in and rearranging the trim.

The boned bodice and skirt slipped down over camisole, stays, and stockings, petticoat and underskirt. Odelette did up the fastenings, tucked back the skirt to reveal the petticoat, and deftly adjusted the ruffles.

Marie-Josèphe was so grateful to Lotte. Mademoiselle’s gift allowed her to attend the Pope’s arrival in a proper dress.

Marie-Josèphe wondered if she would be allowed to meet the Holy Father, to kiss his ring. Surely she would not; that privilege must be reserved for important members of court. She would see him, which she had never hoped to do, for his visit to France was extraordinary.

He is such a good man, she thought. A good man, a holy man. When His Holiness and His Majesty are reconciled, they’ll stop the evils of the world.

Odelette brought out an elaborate new fontanges decorated with leftover lace from the dress and Marie-Josèphe’s last few ribbons.

“There’s no time for you to arrange it,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I’ll be late to attend Mademoiselle.”

“I worked so hard to make it beautiful,” Odelette said.

“And it is—Bring it with us, you may present it to Mademoiselle.”

Odelette reluctantly put the headdress aside and arranged Marie-Josèphe’s hair simply, with a single false diamond as ornament.

Odelette sighed. “Wish for the King to give you a real diamond, Mlle Marie,” she said. “Everyone knows all you have is paste.”

“Everyone knows I have no money,” Marie-Josèphe said. “If I had a diamond, they would wonder where I got it.”

“They all borrow money. From the King, from each other, from the merchants. No one thinks a thing about it.”

Odelette plunged a lamb’s-wool puff into a jar of powder. About to powder her mistress’ bare throat and the curve of her breasts, she stayed her hand.

“No,” she said thoughtfully, “no, powder will hide the blue veins beneath your skin, that prove you are fair.”

The floury powder rose up in a cloud. Marie-Josèphe sneezed.

“Good,” she said. “I’m pale enough.”

Odelette patted her own forehead and cheeks and throat with the wool puff, mottling the smooth tan of her perfect skin with smears of white.

“You’re the most beautiful woman at court,” Odelette said. “All the princes will look at you and say, Who is that lovely princess? I must marry her, and the Ambassador from Turkey must marry her attendant!”

Marie-Josèphe laughed. “I love you, Odelette.”

“It might happen,” Odelette said. “It happens in all the fairy tales.”

“Princes marry princesses, and Turkey isn’t likely to send an ambassador to France.” Though France and Turkey both made war against the same enemy, the King hardly considered the Turks his allies. In the past his armies captured and sold Turkish prisoners, like Odelette’s mother, into slavery. “The gentlemen will say, Who is that colonial girl? I could not marry anyone so plain and unfashionable—unless she had an enormous dowry!”

Odelette brought Marie-Josèphe her high-heeled, pointed shoes; Marie-Josèphe stepped into them.

“There. You’re perfect, Mlle Marie. Except your hair.”

Marie-Josèphe glanced at the pale creature in her mirror. She hardly recognized herself.

Marie-Josèphe and Odelette hurried through the cramped and smelly attic corridors. Odelette carried the fontanges like a fantastic cake.

They descended, down and down the narrow stairs, to the royal level, above the ground floor. Threadbare carpets and dark hallways gave way to polished parquet, rich tapestries, carved stone, gilded wood. Art and fine crafts filled the chateau, so His Majesty would always be surrounded by beauty. Artists and artisans of France produced almost everything His Majesty used, and His Majesty’s notice made French crafts fashionable in all the capitals of the world. Even France’s enemies designed their palaces to resemble the chateau of Versailles.

In the chateau, Marie-Josèphe often found herself staring helplessly at paintings whose beauty and technique she could never hope to match. Paintings by Titian, by Veronese, filled her with wonder. Today she forced herself to pass them with only a glance.

At Lotte’s apartments, a footman announced her. “Mlle Marie-Josèphe de la Croix.” He held open one side of the double door. “You may enter.”

Lotte ran out of a cloud of multicolored silk and satin and velvet, out of the midst of her ladies-in-waiting in their finest gowns and their best jewels.

“Mlle de la Croix!” She embraced Marie-Josèphe, stood back, and looked her up and down.

“You will do,” she said severely, mimicking Madame.

“Thanks to you, Mademoiselle.” Marie-Josèphe curtsied to Lotte and to the other ladies, who all outranked her by every measure.

“What an exciting day!” Lotte plucked at Marie-Josèphe’s skirt to accentuate the flounces. “But, poor Marie-Josèphe, were you covered with fish guts?”

“No, Mademoiselle, only a little charcoal on my fingers.”

“Is this the famous Odelette?” asked Mlle d’Armagnac, the season’s most celebrated beauty. Her skin was as fair as porcelain and her hair as pale as summer wine. “What is that confection?”

The ladies crowded around Odelette, captivated by her handiwork. Lotte laid claim to the new headdress. The ruffled tower reached an armslength above her head, and the ribbons spilled down her back. Mlle d’Armagnac brought silver ribbons, to match Lotte’s petticoat; Odelette wove them into the arrangement.

“It’s wonderful!” Lotte cried. “You’re so clever.” She hugged Marie-Josèphe, gave Odelette a gold louis, and sailed out of her rooms. Marie-Josèphe followed, nearly lost in the crowd.

At Madame’s apartments, both halves of the tall carved entry doors swung open. Lotte’s rank demanded that courtesy. In the anteroom, Madame’s ladies-in-waiting curtsied. Lotte nodded and smiled at them. Halfway to her mother’s private chamber, she turned back.

“Where is Mlle de la Croix? I want Mlle de la Croix.” Marie-Josèphe curtsied. Lotte kissed her lightly, took her arm, and whispered, “Are you ready to face my mama?”

“I treasure your mama,” Marie-Josèphe said sincerely.

“And she likes you. But she can be so stuffy!”

In Madame’s private chambers, a single candle burned on the desk. Madame sat writing, wrapped in a voluminous dressing-gown. The fire in the grate had gone out. The room was dim and cold. Marie-Josèphe curtsied low.

Madame looked up from her writing desk and laid aside her pen.

“My dearest Liselotte,” Madame said, “come and let me look at you.” Madame and Mademoiselle shared the same pet name, within their family.

As Marie-Josèphe curtsied, two little dogs rushed from beneath the skirts of Madame’s dressing gown. They yapped hysterically, their claws tapping and scratching on the parquet. The reek of their droppings clung in all the corners. The dogs, like walking rag-piles, jumped and pawed Marie-Josèphe’s petticoat.

She drew back, rising even before Madame acknowledged her, to avoid a paw in the face. She surreptitiously toed Elderflower away. The ancient pug yapped more loudly, snapped at her skirt, lost interest and wandered off, snuffled at the floor, snorted for air. Youngerflower, the other pug, followed him slavishly. Even compared to Elderflower, Youngerflower was not very bright.

Madame rose, embraced Lotte, fondly patted her cheek, and stepped back to gaze at her.

“Your gown was so costly—His Majesty’s Carrousel will be the ruin of us all—but you are beautiful, and the habit suits you.”

The low neckline showed off Lotte’s magnificent bosom; dove-grey satin, silver lace, and diamonds flattered her blue eyes. Healthy, sturdy, cheerful, and kind, Lotte favored her mother’s side of her family, the German side, while her intensely handsome brother, in both his strengths and afflictions, could be taken only for a Bourbon.

Madame looked Marie-Josèphe up and down. “Mlle de la Croix, I believe I have seen that gown before.”

“It looks so well on Marie-Josèphe, Mama,” Lotte said. “And her wonderful Odelette worked magic to change it.”

“She changed it so much, you could wear it again.”

“No, Mama, not a second time, not with the Foreign Princes here!”

“Where is the palatine I gave you?”

Marie-Josèphe feigned surprise and distress. “Oh, Madame, I beg your pardon, the new gown drove every other thought out of my head!” Fond as she was of Madame, she had no intention of copying her old-lady styles, hiding her decolletage beneath a scarf or a tippet.

“Every other thought but the current fashion.” Madame shook her head, resigned. “Very well. You will do.” Madame sounded exactly like Lotte’s imitation.

Lotte choked down a laugh. Marie-Josèphe hid her own amusement by dropping into another curtsy.

“Dear daughter,” the portly duchess said, “I began to wonder where you were.”

Lotte laughed. “Why, Mama, I had to rescue Mlle de la Croix from the monster fish!”

Marie-Josèphe approached Madame, knelt, and kissed the hem of her gown. “Please forgive me, Madame. I didn’t mean to make Mademoiselle late.”

“Forgive you twice in one day?” Madame smiled. “I’m not your confessor, child! But I wonder if you have too many duties to bother with an old woman’s family.” She took Marie-Josèphe’s hand and raised her to her feet.

“Don’t make me give up Marie-Josèphe, Mama,” Lotte said. “I would offend M. de Chrétien. Besides, I have great plans for her!”

“And His Majesty has great plans for her brother, who needs her. Father de la Croix is more important to His Majesty than we are.” Madame opened her hand in a gesture that took in the whole room, with its faded hangings, the stubby candles. “I don’t begrudge him his place.”

“Madame, you should see our rooms!” Marie-Josèphe said, though she could hardly imagine Madame climbing to the attic, and devoutly hoped Madame would not try. “I could fit my whole chamber within your bed-curtains, and my brother’s is no larger.”

“Ah, that won’t last long, my dear. I honor your brother for his success.” She sighed. “I only wish I could provide for my children properly and pay my bills.”

“Mama, you’re exaggerating as usual,” Lotte said. “Why, we’re rich, since dear Grande Mademoiselle died.”

“ ‘Dear’ Grande Mademoiselle—Never mind, I mustn’t speak ill of the dead. La Grande Mademoiselle left your brother rich. Monsieur is rich. But I have hardly enough to keep my household, and I can hardly maintain Monsieur’s position with one new dress every other season.”

“Mama, you have a brand new grand habit! We must hurry, why haven’t your ladies got you dressed?”

“They fussed so, I sent them away and wrote my letters until you should come.”

Lotte took charge, sending Odelette to fetch Madame’s stays and stockings, putting Marie-Josèphe in charge of Madame’s petticoat. Together they dressed the Princess Palatine. Their conversation turned to the sea monsters.

“I wrote to the Raugrafin Sophie,” Madame said. “I told her of your brother’s triumph, Mlle de la Croix, and of watching him butcher the monster fish.”

“The creatures aren’t really fish, Madame. They’re like whales, or sea-cows. He’s dissecting it—to look inside, to reveal the wonder of how its body works—”

“Dissection, butchery.” Madame shrugged.

“Chartres has all the family talent for alchemy.” Lotte shuddered theatrically. “I couldn’t understand it—if I did I’m sure I’d never again eat or drink or breathe.”

“You’d have no more choice in it,” Madame said, “than you have in emptying your bowels or breaking wind.”

“Mama!” Lotte laughed, her beautiful laugh like spun silver. “Now you stop breathing for a moment, so we may lace your stays.”

Elderflower, in his wandering, bumped into Madame’s feet and plopped down. Marie-Josèphe and Odelette helped Madame into her petticoat. Its edge fell over Elderflower, concealing him. Youngerflower, losing sight of the older dog, ran around the room yapping in a panic.

Ignoring Youngerflower, Madame bent down and pushed aside lace and ruffles to pat Elderflower’s long soft ears.

“He’s getting feeble. I’ll be so sad when he dies—and what will Youngerflower do when he’s gone?”

“Mama, don’t be silly, Elderflower’s no more feeble than you are!”

“We should both retire to a convent, where we’d be in no one’s way, and no one would have to think of us. A convent would accept a little dog, don’t you think? They wouldn’t deprive me of my few pleasures.”

They would deprive you of everything they could, dear Madame, Marie-Josèphe thought, but she could not say such an irreverent thing out loud.

“Madame, I think you would not enjoy a convent.” She and Odelette lifted the great construction of Madame’s court dress and settled it upon her.

“Mama, they wouldn’t let you hunt, if you retired to a convent. They might not let you write your letters. What would Raugrafin Sophie do without them?”

“I’d have nothing to write about, from the convent. I’d have to take the veil, and a vow of silence.”

“You’d never see the King—”

“I see him—” Madame’s voice caught. “I see him seldom enough anyway.”

“And besides, you must find me a prince, you promised!”

Lotte’s enthusiasm brought a smile, tinged only a little with sadness, to Madame’s lips. She held out her arms; she and Lotte embraced again.

“I must, it is true,” Madame said. “For I failed your brother in the matter of his marriage—his father failed him, his uncle the King failed him, and our family is full of mouse droppings!” Madame sighed deeply. “If Chartres had fewer foolish notions, fewer dangerous occupations—”

“Mama, you forget—”

“That Father de la Croix has the same sort of notions? I forget nothing, Liselotte. He can afford his new-fangled ideas.”

Madame sat down. Elderflower clawed his way into her lap; snuffling and sputtering, the evil pug sat its bottom on her velvet skirt and pawed the gauze covering her bosom. Madame petted the creature fondly.

“Everything’s different for a Grandson of France. What His Majesty approves in a Jesuit, he cannot approve for his nephew.”

“Madame, your son loves science,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Forbidding him his studies would cause him infinite distress.”

“And allowing him to continue might cost him his life. The suspicions could drag your brother down as well. And you, you must take care.”

“Suspicions!” Marie-Josèphe shook her head in confusion. “Who could suspect Yves of any base act? Who could suspect Chartres? Madame, he is sweet and good and intelligent—”

“My husband is sweet and good and intelligent as well,” Madame said. “For all his faults, and even for his sins. That kept no one from gossiping that he poisoned Henriette d’Angleterre—or that he should be burned.”

“Nonsense, mama. Everyone who knew the first Madame says she died because she never ate anything. She pined away for love of—”

“Hush, you know nothing of her, you were no more than a glimmer of duty in your father’s eye.”

“And you were still in the Palatinate with Aunt Sophie!”

Madame bent to lean her forehead against Elderflower’s soft golden fur. Youngerflower snuffled around her feet, his nose to the floor, seeking his elder companion without success.

Madame sighed. “And how I wish I had stayed there!”

She gazed at Lotte for a long minute. Her rough breath slowed and deepened and she did not cry. Marie-Josèphe’s heart broke for Madame, so far from home.

“I will find you a prince, Liselotte,” Madame said. “My duty is to find him, and your duty will be to marry him. I hope you will not hate me on that day… I hope you will be happier than I.”

“Mama, never worry about my wedding day. You’ll be proud of me, I promise. Oh, what shall we do about your hair?”

“Give me a ribbon to tie it with,” Madame said, glancing critically at Lotte’s headdress. “You have plenty to spare. No one will notice me.”

“Marie-Josèphe, mama needs your help.”

“I can only defer to Odelette, Mademoiselle.”

She drew Odelette forward and held the pins and ribbons while she worked. Lotte joined her, playing the part of hairdresser’s assistant with enthusiasm.

“Mama, please smile,” Lotte said. “You look magnificent. Will you send for some chocolate and cakes to sustain us for the afternoon?”

“I should not smile because my teeth are too ugly and I should not have cakes because I am too fat,” Madame said. “But I will do both, my dear, to please you.”

As Odelette finished dressing Madame’s hair, Monsieur and Chartres and Lorraine arrived, trooping into Madame’s private chamber like a trio of jeweled and bewigged peacocks. As if from nowhere, servants appeared with more pastries, with plates of fruit, with wine.

Moving with her usual stolid energy, Madame rose from her chair to curtsy to her husband. Monsieur formally returned her salute.

“I’ve brought my hairdresser for you, Madame.” Monsieur stroked a curl of his massive black wig and sipped wine from a silver goblet. “Do let him—”

“I’ve been fussed over quite enough.” Madame waved Monsieur’s hairdresser away.

Lorraine and Chartres looked on, drinking wine, critical and amused. Bowing, disappointed, the hairdresser withdrew.

“Have you a new hairdresser?” Monsieur asked. “The arrangement is adequate—more than adequate. With the addition of a ruffle or two—”

“I am far too old for a fontanges. No, thank you, Monsieur. I prefer my hair plain—and so does your brother the King.”

Monsieur and Lorraine exchanged a glance; even Marie-Josèphe knew that the King, in his wilder youth, paid his serious attentions to beauties.

“Who did your hair?” Monsieur asked his daughter. “It’s quite delightful.”

“Mlle de la Croix, Papa,” Lotte said. “I’m so lucky to have her—she might have been trapped at Saint-Cyr forever!”

“Odelette is entirely responsible,” Marie-Josèphe said.

Odelette curtsied shyly. Monsieur felt around in his pockets, came up with nothing but crumbs, unpinned a diamond from his waistcoat, and gave it to Odelette.

“Where is Father de la Croix?” Madame asked. “He promised us a few moments—a story or two of his voyage.”

“He will be here soon, Madame.”

“If he’s late, Mlle de la Croix,” Chartres said, “I’ll be pleased to escort you.”

“You’ll escort your sister,” Madame said severely. “As your wife doesn’t see fit to grace my rooms.”

“Why, Madame,” Lorraine said, “Mlle de Blois fears she’ll be swept up—with the other mouse droppings.”

“Madame Lucifer has better things to do than spend her time with me,” Chartres said. “To my everlasting gratitude.”

“I so want to hear your brother’s adventures,” Madame said. “If I miss them, I’ll wait another decade for any excitement.”

“If you miss a single story, Madame,” Marie-Josèphe said, “he’ll tell them all over again for you. I promise.”

“You are a good child.”

“Mlle de la Croix, I have a present for you.” Chartres limped toward her, his blind eye wandering. Marie-Josèphe always feared he would fall at her feet.

He pulled the stopper from a beautiful little silver bottle and thrust it at her.

“What is it, sir?”

“Perfume—of my own making.” He dropped to one knee before her. Embarrassed, Marie-Josèphe stepped back.

“Do get up, sir, please.”

He grasped her hand, to dab perfume on her wrist, but Lotte stopped him.

“Let her smell it first, Philippe,” she said. “It might not suit her.”

“How could it not?” Chartres said.

Marie-Josèphe wondered if it was quite proper for a married man to give a gift of perfume to his sister’s lady-in-waiting. For her to criticize his manners would be even more improper. She wondered why his wife avoided him, for despite his strange blind eye he was handsome, and he always had something new and interesting to talk about.

“Pure essence of flowers.” Chartres waved the stopper beneath her nose, releasing a delicate tendril of scent.

“Roses! Sir, it’s lovely.”

Chartres splashed the perfume on Marie-Josèphe’s wrist. As he reached for her bosom, Madame snatched the bottle. Chartres pouted.

“A prince should not do a maid’s job.” Madame gave the flask to Marie-Josèphe. “Let your girl scent you up, Mlle de la Croix, if you wish.”

“I only want to show Mlle de la Croix I’m a chemist,” Chartres said. “I could help her brother. I could study with him.”

Odelette dabbed essence of roses behind Marie-Josèphe’s ears and on her throat and between her breasts. The tincture evaporated, chilling her skin, enveloping her in fragrance.

“You may think yourself a chemist, Philippe,” Monsieur said. “But you’re only a novice perfume maker.”

Chartres’ uneven gaze followed Odelette’s hands. Lorraine smiled at Marie-Josèphe, mocking and sympathetic. The skin around his eyes crinkled with the most attractive laugh-lines.

“Sometime you must try one of my perfumes,” Monsieur said. He waved his lace handkerchief before her face. A pungent and musky odor obliterated the fragrance of roses. “Now, who is superior, father or son?”

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur—but my nose is filled with the scent of roses, and I cannot compare another fragrance.” She dared not tell Monsieur his favorite perfume overwhelmed her and made her think of Lorraine.

“You look far too plain for the importance of the day.” Monsieur peered into a mirror, plucked off one of his own beauty patches, and pressed it just above the corner of Marie-Josèphe’s mouth.

“Thank you, Monsieur.” She curtsied, hardly knowing what else to do.

“Now that I’ve proven myself a chemist,” Chartres said, “will you recommend me as your brother’s assistant?”

“She will not, sir,” Monsieur said.

“You come to supper smelling of sulfur,” Madame said. “Now you propose to add fish guts? It isn’t proper for you to dirty your hands.”

“Or his reputation,” Lorraine said, a dark hint of warning in his voice.

“Be quiet, my dear.” Monsieur spoke with worried intensity and returned his attention to his son. “Dabbling in alchemy is beneath you.”

“Yes, it is, sir!” Chartres exclaimed. “What I study is chemistry. It’s important work. We may discover how the world functions—”

“And what use is that, sir?” his father asked. “Will it advance the fortunes of our family?”

“I married Madame Lucifer to advance the fortunes of our family,” Chartres said.

“For all the good that did us,” Madame said.

His complexion dangerously choleric, Monsieur raised his voice. “You have duties enough already.”

“And what are those, sir?” Though Chartres’ voice held only innocence, his blind eye wandered wildly.

“To please the King,” Monsieur said.

Marie-Josèphe caught her breath with relief when Yves arrived, only a moment before Monsieur and Madame and their ladies and gentlemen departed to make their way through the chateau to the Marble Courtyard. He bowed gallantly; the ladies clustered around him, hiding behind their fans with feigned shyness. He stood out among the courtiers, whether he was with ladies or gentlemen, because of the plainness of his robe, because of his beauty. But he had left no time to amuse Madame with sea monster stories.

He folded Marie-Josèphe’s hand into the crook of his elbow; they joined the procession. She was proud to be with her brother, yet she admitted to herself a shred of envy at Mlle d’Armagnac’s place, fluttering her fan at Chartres, taking the Chevalier de Lorraine’s arm.

“What have you put on your face?” Yves whispered.

“Monsieur placed it there.”

“It isn’t the sort of thing my sister should wear.” With gentle caution, he plucked the beauty patch from her upper lip.

“I’m sorry.” Marie-Josèphe kept her voice low. “I didn’t know how to say he might not give it to me.”

“As for your dress…” With a concerned frown, he tugged at the lace peeking above her low neckline, pulling the decorated edge until the camisole’s plain muslin showed. She pushed his hand away, hoping no one had seen, but Mlle d’Armagnac watched, and whispered to Lorraine.

“Madame approved it—she’s the soul of propriety.” She did not mention Madame’s palatine. She tucked the muslin out of sight, leaving only the silk lace trim revealed. Marie-Josèphe had been astonished to discover that Lotte’s camisoles were of muslin, except the trim. Madame was not only the soul of propriety, but the soul of making the most of a sou.

“You always were a quick study,” Yves said. “A few months in France, two weeks at Versailles, and already an expert in court etiquette.”

“Two weeks at Versailles, all summer at Saint-Cyr—where they speak only of the King, religion, and fashion.”

Yves gazed at her quizzically. “I’m only teasing. You’ve done well—but I’m here now. You needn’t worry anymore.”

What Yves said was true. His success overshadowed Marie-Josèphe’s small progress. She could fade behind his light. She could keep his house; if she were lucky he would let her continue to assist in his work. She was selfish, and foolish, to wish and hope for more. Humbled, she squeezed his arm and leaned her head against the rough wool of his cassock. Yves patted her hand fondly.

At Yves’ side, Marie-Josèphe waited in the Marble Courtyard, standing in her place behind Mademoiselle. Courtiers and clerics packed the square, covering its bold concentric black-and-white pattern of newly-polished marble tiles.

The chateau glowed, its columns and vases polished, the gilt on the doors and windows and balconies renewed, the marble busts cleaned and repaired. Huge pots of flowers lined the courtyards that opened out, each one successively larger, to the Gate of Honor and the Place d’Armes. Thousands of spectators filled the courtyards.

A double line of flowering orange trees in silver pots flanked His Holiness’ route, along the Avenue de Paris, across the Place d’Armes, up to the gilded gate. Larger orange trees marked a path across the cobblestones of the Ministers’ Place, through the Forecourt, and between the wings of the chateau to the edge of the Marble Courtyard. The visitors stood respectfully behind the orange trees, leaving the pathway clear.

Marie-Josèphe had never seen so many people. They all wore finery, even if the finery were cobbled together. The men wore swords, as decent dress required: massive medieval family heirlooms, battered souvenirs of past wars, gilt or potmetal blades rented from the stands along the road from the town of Versailles.

Marie-Josèphe’s feet hurt. The sun dipped behind the roof of the chateau, plunging the courtyard into cool shadow. Marie-Josèphe shivered despite the press of bodies and the clear late-summer day. With her handkerchief, she patted the perspiration from Mademoiselle’s brow.

A cheer gathered in the distance. Marie-Josèphe forgot her pinched feet and her shivers.

Noise struck her as the voices of thousands of people rose, rejoicing in the reconciliation between Louis and the Church of Rome. The courtyard, set between the wings of the chateau, concentrated and focused the cheers, as if the busts of philosophers and heroes were shouting their acclaim, as if Mars and Hercules on their pediment cried out to celebrate Christianity’s ascendance.

Magnificent in their bright uniforms, a troop of Swiss Guards dismounted at the Gate of Honor and marched between the trees. His Holiness’ coach followed. Though His Majesty had given His Holiness dispensation to drive a carriage to the entrance of the chateau, the guards must walk.

Louis could have commanded Innocent to approach him on foot; he had, after all, forced one of Innocent’s holy predecessors to abase himself and apologize for the loutish actions of his guards. This King of France had forced Rome’s representatives to yield precedence to his own. But he was a great diplomat; he would not require an old and pious and humble man to walk. He would not risk his treaty.

The coach proceeded between the orange trees, keeping a stately pace. As Innocent passed, nodding to the crowd, a tide of cheers followed him. The crowd closed in after the carriage, filling the space between the orange trees. Green leaves and white blossoms quivered violently.

The great doors of the chateau swung open, and the King appeared.

Louis crossed the Marble Courtyard at a leisurely pace, magnificent in brown velvet studded with tigers-eyes and trimmed with gold lace, a green satin waistcoat heavily embroidered with gold, and diamond garters and shoe buckles. For this very particular occasion, he wore the Order of the Holy Ghost outside his coat. Dazzling diamonds covered the long blue sash. Rubies and sapphires decorated the gold scabbard of His Majesty’s ceremonial sword. Spanish point lace edged his hat, and the most wonderful white plumes swept over his shoulder.

Marie-Josèphe curtsied deeply. All around her, silk rustled and velvet whispered as the other courtiers bowed. Marie-Josèphe risked a peek.

Below, in the forecourt, the Swiss Guards formed a double line to flank His Holiness’ carriage. The horses, stepping high, trotted to the low course of stairs at the edge of the Marble Courtyard.

His Majesty reached the top of the steps.

His Majesty allowed the cheering to crescendo. He stood in grandeur, flanked by two generations of his heirs, by the deposed King James and Queen Mary of England, by his ministers and his advisers. Mme de Maintenon, drab and serene, stood at the very back of the King’s party.

Marie-Josèphe caught her breath. His Holiness’ white robes shone from the dimness of the coach.

His Holiness descended. His Majesty stood straight, gazing at the old man who held a key to winning the war against the League of Augsburg. The crowd fell silent.

The two most powerful men in the western world faced each other.

Cardinals and bishops followed Innocent out of the carriage. They bowed to His Majesty. When they rose, so did Marie-Josèphe and the other courtiers.

“Welcome, Cousin. Our estrangement has caused great sorrow.” His Majesty honored the Pope with his courtesy.

“Cousin, I rejoice at the reconciliation of France with Rome. I rejoice at our alliance.”

“Together, we will crush the Protestants. We will eradicate their heresy from France. From Europe. From the world. For the glory of God.”

The enormous crowd erupted in a spontaneous cheer of devotion to God and King.

Transfixed, Mme de Maintenon clasped her hands before her lips. Her dark eyes shone with tears. Marie-Josèphe felt a little sorry for her, despite her position: married—everyone said—to the King, but secretly, never acknowledged, and therefore open to the charge of adultery and fornication. Her persuasion was the cause of this unprecedented meeting. And yet she must stand behind the bastard princes, silent, nearly overcome with emotion.

As the cheering continued, one of the bishops brought forward a container of gold encrusted with pearls and diamonds. He handed the reliquary to His Holiness, who accepted it reverently. Pope Innocent raised the tall domed receptacle to his lips, then handed it to His Majesty.

Louis accepted the magnificent offering. His Holiness had brought a bone, or a bit of flesh, from the preserved body of a saint, to reside forever in France. Perhaps His Majesty would keep it in the chapel at Versailles, where the courtiers could see it, touch the reliquary, acquire goodness and piety by its influence.

His Majesty handed the reliquary to Count Lucien, who accepted it and gave it to Father de la Chaise. His Holiness frowned at Count Lucien, then made his expression benign again. And indeed Marie-Josèphe thought Count Lucien had handled the saint’s relic rather offhandedly. Innocent’s gift merited a golden altar, or at least a velvet pillow.

Count Lucien signalled. A half-dozen footmen staggered forward, bent beneath the weight of a magnificent ebony prayer bench of the most fashionable style. Inlays of exotic woods and mother-of-pearl, outlined with gold, illustrated scenes from the Parables.

His Majesty’s artisans have outdone themselves, Marie-Josèphe thought.

The King and the Pope saluted each other, Innocent bowing with genuine humility, His Majesty deigning to incline his head to his fellow prince. The courtiers with His Majesty, the churchmen with Innocent, bowed deeply each to the other side. When they rose, Mme de Maintenon’s expression shone like the sun, with unutterable joy. In public she kept her own council; she raised her black lace fan before her face, but it betrayed her by trembling.

His Majesty could give his hand only to the Emperor, the only man in Europe whose rank equaled his own. He did not breach etiquette for the sake of Pope Innocent, as he had for his deposed ally James of England.

Though Innocent forbore to offer his ring to Louis to be kissed, he searched His Majesty’s escort, and stretched his hand toward Mme de Maintenon.

Mme de Maintenon hurried forward, her black silk skirt and petticoats rustling against the black and white marble. A powerful unacknowledged queen on a distorted chessboard, she knelt—gracefully, despite her age—before Innocent and pressed his hand, his ring, to her lips.

“Perhaps he’ll stone her,” Madame muttered, only loud enough for Lotte—and Marie-Josèphe, just behind her—to hear. Marie-Josèphe felt rather shocked, but Lotte pressed her lips together, and her shoulders shook.

“Rise, sister.” Innocent treated Mme de Maintenon with exquisite and kindly politeness, supporting the faction that believed she and the King had married.

His Majesty and Pope Innocent and Mme de Maintenon walked together across the Marble Courtyard to the chateau entrance, the Royal Family and the bishops and cardinals falling in behind, the courtiers bowing as they passed. Another cheer from the crowd rose around them and echoed from the walls, making the busts of heroes and saints shout and cry as they never had in life.