Authors: Stolen Spring
“But you didn’t have a wife waiting at home. And you didn’t take mistresses while
Maman
lived.”
“Your mother was all the woman I needed. Now, eat your cake while I tell you the rest of my story. It’s been a most entertaining morning! When we were through eating, the Duc de Bleyle took me along with him to the king’s
lever.
Bleyle, you know, is in favor at the moment, and has the privilege of the
grand entrée,
the right to be present in the king’s bedchamber upon his majesty’s first arising.
Mon Dieu,
the man has even seen the king upon his
chaise percée
!”
She snorted. “I cannot imagine myself being enthralled with the sight of a man on his chamber pot! Even the king! Why the courtiers at Versailles make such a to-do, I’ll never know.”
“’Tis a great honor, nonetheless. At any rate, after the king had said his prayers, the rest of us were admitted to his chamber to watch him enjoy a light repast of bread and wine. After that, we watched him dress. Bleyle was privileged to hand the king his left glove—a singular honor!” Tintin’s eyes shone. “But I must tell you now, daughter, that I was more honored than
he
this morning. For as he left the
grand lever
the king smiled at me and stopped. I bowed my finest bow. ‘Sire,’ I said. ‘Are you not the Marquis de Tournières?’ he said. ‘The same, Sire,’ I answered. ‘You have a most handsome daughter,’ he said, and moved on. To think that he recalled you, Rouge!”
“It’s very flattering, Tintin, but what does it earn us? Did you use the opportunity to ask him for a pension?”
Chrétien looked abashed. “No. I forgot.”
She sighed. “You never think of the morrow.
I
should not have forgot.”
“It was not without its benefits. The moment the king was out of sight, I was approached by several tradesmen, all panting to extend me credit. With the prestige of the king’s personal notice, I’ll be able to delay paying for months and live on credit. I immediately invited to dinner—at my own expense, of course—the brother to that charming widow who has captured my heart. If I can win the brother’s favor, there should be no impediment to my suit.”
She smiled indulgently at her father. “Here we are, on the edge of ruin, and you think first of
amour
!”
“’Tis far more worthwhile to feed the heart than the belly. And speaking of the heart…I nearly forgot. A pageboy in splendid livery stopped me and gave me this packet for you.”
“For me?” Rouge took the small package that Tintin had removed from his pocket. Within was a pale yellow silk handkerchief, delicately embroidered with roses and cyclamen. Beside the handkerchief was a note. Curious, she unfolded it and began to read aloud.
“I beg your forgiveness for my intemperate words. Fair creature, will you meet me this afternoon at
the Grotto of Thetis? At three of the clock. I promise you only the most respectful devotion. My heart awaits you.”
“I
thought
it must be a love note, from the way the pageboy sniggered when he gave it me. And he has signed his name? This gentleman, this giver of gifts?” He lifted the handkerchief to his nose. “Scented gifts. A most fastidious cavalier. Well? Does he have a name?”
“Arsène de Falconet. A nobleman I encountered yesterday.”
Mon Dieu!
thought Rouge. She was blushing!
“You’ll meet him, of course.”
“Of course. But you’ll have to do without me this afternoon. What are you playing today? Piquet?
Hombre
? I shan’t be able to help you if the cards go against you.”
“It’s just as well. I’m playing with Clarisse’s husband, the Comte de Beaucastel. I thought he seemed a trifle uneasy the other day when you dropped your fan in order to lean over and discover his cards. ’Tis best that my fortunes rise and fall on my own skills today.” He kissed her tenderly on the forehead and went out, leaving her to spend the morning with her limited wardrobe, and the problem of what to wear to meet the Comte de Falconet.
She ate a leisurely noontime dinner of leftovers with François, and thought of Arsène de Falconet. She remembered his proud bearing, the fineness of his features, the way his eyes had praised her. Even alone in her room, she felt her cheeks begin to color again and her pulse quicken. Name of God, she thought. I’m as giddy as a peasant girl at a country fair! But the gift had been charming and unexpected, and the note suggested that he was ready to respect her virtue.
In his eagerness to be helpful, François had stolen a gold ribbon—she dared not ask from where! Chiding him as best she could, she looped it into a bow that she tucked into her fontange, put Arsène’s silk handkerchief into the pocket of her deep burgundy gown, and hurried into the gardens of Versailles. It was a pleasant March day; the early spring trees had already begun to flower. She smiled to herself, her heart thumping in anticipation, as she walked to the Grotto of Thetis, a graceful little pavilion. Dedicated to the sea, into which the sun god Apollo sank each evening, the little temple was designed to seem like an underwater cave, with shells decorating the walls, and sea gods of marble and stone paying homage to the sun god. It was cool and dim within the pavilion, and the sound of splashing water echoed from hidden recesses.
Rouge blinked to adjust her eyes to the sudden darkness, and looked about her.
“I prayed that you would come,” a deep voice murmured from the gloom. Arsène de Falconet came toward her. Today he was wearing a short black wig tied back with a ribbon, rather than a full-bottomed court wig. But the blackness of his eyebrows, arching over his deep blue eyes, made it clear that the color had not been chosen frivolously. He was dressed more informally this afternoon: his cravat, the casual steinkirk that had been named after a great French victory, was twisted several times, then looped negligently through a buttonhole of his waistcoat. His plain coat, of the same gray cloth as the waistcoat, was well-cut, accenting the breadth of his shoulders. His stockings, beneath his knee-length breeches, were of a paler gray. The only spot of color he wore was a large
cocarde
of ribbon loops perched on one shoulder, of the same soft yellow—Rouge couldn’t help but notice—as the handkerchief he had sent to her. “Yes,” he said, seeming to read the question in her eyes. “I wore it on purpose. If you choose to exhibit my gift in public, I want the court to know it’s
my
favor you wear.”
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
“Not at all. You need not carry the gift for all to see. The choice is yours. But I should be lying if I didn’t confess that I’d consider it a great honor. To show the world you’re mine.”
She moved uneasily about the dim room, fingering the handkerchief in her pocket. “You are too quick. Too forward for me.”
“I promised you I’d respect your virtue. But I shall woo you with words, Marie-Rouge. Because I want you.”
She frowned in annoyance. “I don’t give myself lightly.”
His eyes burned into her, an intense blue light that made her shiver involuntarily. “I don’t ask lightly,” he said. “We’re well met.” He smiled, and the eyes softened. “But you’re a temptation to a man, Marie-Rouge! That beauty mark at your mouth. Kiss me, it says.”
“It says no such thing. God put it there, not I.”
“But surely God had a purpose. He might have put it—for a blessing—on an ugly face. But instead he put it on the face of a goddess. Surely he meant to tempt a man!”
She laughed. “Temptation is the devil’s work, not God’s.”
“Then, devil take me, I’d sell my soul for a kiss.” He moved closer and stroked the side of her cheek, his fingers caressing her downy skin.
With a graceful movement she stepped back, held out her hand. “You must be content with this today.”
He smiled thinly. “And still you play the game of virtue? Very well.” He lifted her fingers in his strong hand, pulling them roughly to his lips. His kiss was hot, impassioned. “Your hand smells of orange water. Your lips are full and red, like the grapes on the vine. I think it will be like sipping sweet, rich wine to taste your mouth.”
Mon Dieu!
Her head was spinning with his fervent assault. It was all she could do to keep her wits about her. “But not today,” she said.
He smiled and hooked her arm through his. “No. Not today. Today we’ll stroll among the trees, and I shall tell you how beautiful you are, and how I long for you. And tomorrow, perhaps, you’ll take pity on me and grant me my kiss.”
He led her out into the sunshine. They ambled through the groves, past beds bright with early spring flowers, into hidden nooks that sheltered fountains and statues. As they chatted, she learned that he lived near Tours, was twenty-five, had fought in past campaigns, but was grateful that France was now at peace. “I have all the summer now,” he said, “to spend in your presence.”
“And if I should return home?”
“I’d follow you.”
“You’re very dogged, once you’ve made up your mind.”
“’Tis a trait of the Falconets. To get what they want.”
By the time he returned her to the palace, with a promise to see her in the evening at the king’s
appartement,
she was tense with exhaustion. She had fenced with courtiers before, but never one so single-minded. There was something almost frightening in the way he expected her to succumb to him sooner or later. She mustn’t let herself be swayed by his charm until she knew him better, knew his intentions.
On three evenings a week, Louis held his
appartement
, his “open house.” From seven to ten he was no longer the imposing sovereign, but the master of the house, seeing to the comfort of his guests. The evening always began with a concert, followed by cards and billiards, at which the king excelled. Rouge found these evenings pleasant enough— not least because of the rooms set aside for refreshments and the promise of supper at ten. A supper that would not have to be paid for out of their meager funds.
Mon Dieu!
she thought, watching the musicians tuning up their instruments, but I spend half the time in this place worrying about my stomach! She moved uncomfortably in her corner of the large salon. And her feet, she thought ruefully, envying the women who had managed to find stools upon which to perch. Seating was always at a premium at Versailles: far more courtiers than chairs and benches and stools. And, except at the
appartements
, there were rigid rules of etiquette which forbade a courtier to sit in the presence of his betters. One needed a strong constitution and good feet to survive at Versailles!
“I have never enjoyed an
appartement
until now.”
Rouge jumped at the voice just over her shoulder. “Ah! Monsieur de Falconet,” she said, turning toward him.
He smiled down at her. “Surely you brighten this room, like the sparkle of a diamond. I thought of you after we parted. I waited with impatience for tonight. My sweet Marie-Rouge, my…”
“Hush,” whispered Rouge, putting her finger to her lips. “The music is about to start.”
“That lamentable singer whom we heard last week? Who will bore us yet again with her singing of an aria from an opera which is gathering dust?”
Rouge giggled. “You must suffer through it. There’s nothing to be done, with the king watching. And he’ll notice if you leave the room. He always does.”
“There is
much
to be done. I shall confound the boredom of it all by whispering in your ear as the woman sings. And unless you blush, as you seem to be doing now, no one will be the wiser.”
Rouge brushed a hand against her burning cheek. He was certainly the most determined man she’d met in a long time! And the most exciting.
At last—and to Rouge’s relief—the music was finished, and, with it, the steady stream of compliments that brought blushes to her cheeks. The court moved off to the billiard room to watch in respectful silence as the king played a round; then Louis excused himself until supper, and retired to the apartment of Madame de Maintenon, the commoner who was his second wife.
Relieved of the formality of the king’s presence until supper was served, the courtiers began to enjoy themselves. They drifted off into little groups, to play at cards, to eat, to dance. Spying her father leaving the music room, Rouge waved and blew him a kiss.
Arsène, still at her elbow, leaned in close. “Your father?”
“Yes.”
“I hear he gambles more than is prudent. Will he try his luck tonight?”
“He doesn’t like to play cards at an
appartement
, where the most unruly courtiers sit down at the tables. Tintin is a gentleman.”