The Courtier of Versailles

~Two~-1

~Two~She stood before the cloudy mirror wondering if the distorted reflection she saw in it was her own or if it had magically captured the image of another, one of the perfectly mannered, perfectly obsequious courtiers clogging every inch of Versailles. The sage-green silk bodice hugged her tightly, fitting to the exact form of the binding corset beneath it. Satin ribbon trimmed the low-cut bodice, elbow-length sleeves and hem and created bows embellishing the full skirt and slight train. The large felt hat in the same sage green boasted one fluffy white ostrich feather.

Jeanne peered closely at her face; her eyes looked darker, deeper, and her skin glowed with tawny effervescence.

“Humph,” she grunted to the woman staring at her. “This is far too feminine garb for the likes of you. But it will have to do.” Jeanne, neither familiar nor comfortable in such elegance, had promised her mother only a few hours ago that she would try harder, and she would. With a determined flick of her chin and a giggle as the aigrette wiggled high above her head, she left the unfamiliar reflection behind.

Exiting through one of the lower gallery doors, into the back courtyard of Versailles, Jeanne hid her face in the large shadow cast by the brim of her millinery. The sun blazed; her eyes squinted in defense. Through narrowed lids, a colorful mosaic appeared before her—red, blue, green, yellow: every color of the spectrum blurred in her vision. Slowly her pupils adjusted to the light and her full, wide mouth turned up in a bow.

Courtiers. Like petals fluttering around the pistil, these creatures, prodigiously garbed in every color of the rainbow, shimmered brightly in silk, satin, and brocade. Women with piled-high coifs adorned with all manner of hat and lace, and men with their long, flowing curls blowing in the breeze and topped with plumed hats, vied for prominence.

Jeanne's nostrils quivered in delight at the freshness of both air and water. She took her first step toward the entourage as they assembled between the two grand pools of the Water Parterre, the first section of the immense gardens spanning over two hundred and fifty acres. Her heart beat wildly; moisture beaded under her many layers of clothing. This was her first social outing since her return, her first time among the gossiping courtiers, and she anticipated a cold reception.

“Ma chère, ma chère Jeanne!” A high-pitched call reached her ears. Jeanne turned, her heart bursting with joy.

Pushing and shoving, two young women struggled out of the cluster of courtiers, rushing toward her, arms and smiles wide and welcoming. Silk and satin enveloped her, two strong bodies pressed her between them.

“We heard you were back.”

“Why have you not come to us sooner?”

Jeanne laughed, putting one arm around each of the women, relishing the acceptance she felt in their embrace, heard in their words.

“Pardieu. I am sorry,” Jeanne giggled. “But I am here now. Come, let me look at you.”

Jeanne released her friends and stepped back. Powdered and beauty-marked, Olympe de Cinq-Mars, daughter of the Marquis de Solignac, stood afire in brilliant red silk. Her jet-black hair and eyes burned with her intensity. Paling in visual impact, Lynette La Marechal, daughter of the Duc du Vermorel, shimmered sweetly in yellow brocade, long blond curls pulled back softly to reveal her delicate skin and pale blue eyes.

“How I have missed you both,” Jeanne almost sobbed, the emotional reunion with her two dearest friends overwhelmed her.

Heedless of prying eyes, she kissed each one tenderly on the lips. Here in their arms, she found consolation in returning to Versailles.

“How do I find you, mes amies? What is about?” Jeanne asked, taking each woman by the hand.

“I am to marry soon,” Olympe answered first, not surprising Jeanne. “My father is in negotiations with quite a few hopefuls. Papa says many vie for my hand, but he will not concede to just anyone. Maman says every courtier in the country will attend my wedding. Well, the ones who matter, at least.”

“How wonderful for you, ma chère.” Jeanne smiled at Olympe, seeing how little her friend had changed. Even as a young girl, Olympe's wistful wishes had dwelled on court intrigue, fashion, and to one day making the perfect match.

“And you, ma petite.” Jeanne turned to Lynette, swinging the hands of her friends as they headed slowly toward the bevy of courtiers. “Is there a handsome young cavalier waiting for you?”

Lynette hid behind lowered lids and the pink flush spreading across her pale skin.

“Non, chère Jeanne, it is not a conventional marriage which I seek. My papa has petitioned the King to allow me to enter the Convent de La Bas Poitou.”

Jeanne stopped, arms pulling ahead of her body as her friends took another step or two.

“Truly?” Jeanne's wide eyes gaped at Lynette.

Unlike Jeanne, Lynette had completed her education at the abbey near Toulouse. Her letters had always been a window into the depth of her piety.

“It is what I desire above all else,” Lynette assured her, chin jutting up and out.

Jeanne smiled at her friend's conviction.

“When will you know?”

“Soon, I hope.”

Jeanne hugged her, face close to her friend's comely countenance.

“Do you feel well? Have you been ill?” Jeanne's thoughts became words with little heed, one of her least appealing habits, but Lynette's pale skin and the purple smudges under the familiar orbs troubled her.

“No. I am fine and have been.” Lynette patted Jeanne's hand still clasped in her own. “Have no fear, dearest.”

Jeanne smiled, nodding, yet lingering concern niggled her.

“And you, you rascal.” Olympe pulled Jeanne along to continue their stroll, looking sideways through narrowed dark eyes. “Is all we have heard true?”

“Too true, I fear.” Jeanne cast her eyes down with contrition, but the feigned repentance was an unconvincing mask before these two friends.

“You are the chatter of the chateau,” Olympe chided. “Could you not contain yourself for one more year?”

Jeanne shook her head vehemently, one long curl coming loose to fall blithely down her neck.

“It is a miracle I did not get ousted sooner.” Jeanne's mouth turned up in a devilish grin, a decidedly malicious spark lighting in her sable eyes. “In truth, my dears, I did everything I could to get evicted.”

“Non, shh, do not say such things.” Lynette surreptitiously cast her gaze about. “Why? Why would you wish it to be so?”

“Why would I not? The place was abhorrent, the instruction trivial nonsense, the girls brainless twits, and the nuns naught but veiled monsters.”

Jeanne closed her eyes tightly, repulsed by the memories. To revisit her seven years at the convent was to recall a nightmare that lasted all night. Just speaking of it brought the horrors quickly back; even the smells, the harsh lye soap, the burnt porridge, and the sickeningly sweet incense, came back to clog her sinuses. But it was the blind, slave-like obedience demanded from the Sisters that she could not abide.

“How can my love of God be measured by how deeply I curtsey to the nuns?” Jeanne demanded self-righteously.

Olympe giggled loudly; Lynette shushed her again.

“You really must watch your tongue,” Lynette warned softly, teeth clamped tightly together. “You are a part of Louis' court now. There are ears everywhere. You must control your words.”

“Ha!” Olympe barked, holding her chin a smidgen higher and flashing a sensual smile at two young soldiers as they passed. “Advising Jeanne to hold her tongue is like advising the world to stop turning. It cannot be done.”

Jeanne giggled, joyful at being among those who knew her well, yet accepted and loved her regardless.

“What will you do?” Lynette stopped and turned to face Jeanne, searching her friend's face under tightly knit brows.

“She will marry, of course.” Olympe rolled her dark eyes at Lynette.

Jeanne remained silent but shared a telling look with Lynette. She longed to pour her heart out, to tell of all the unrequited dreams fermenting in her heart. Lynette put an arm around her friend, stifling the barrage about to burst, and turned Jeanne toward the large group. They were but a mere few paces away; to speak would be for all to hear.

The three young women arrived at the edge of the clustered courtiers. Jeanne held firmly to her friends, trepidation tightening her grip. A few of the gaudily plumed beau monde turned to glance at her; a few whispered to their friends, snide giggles erupting here and there. A few reared quickly away, nostrils flaring as if they smelled something distasteful. Surprisingly, a few afforded her shallow curtseys and barely perceptible bows.

“There, you see,” Lynette whispered gently, “they welcome you back with open hearts.”

Jeanne almost guffawed aloud. “If these are open hearts, then I am King Louis.”

As if the mention of his name summoned him, the crowd parted and the great sovereign strutted into the center of the circle.

There are men others will instinctively follow, for whom they will act with blind obedience. Louis XIV was such a man. Some called him the most handsome man in France. Jeanne thought it was his persona, his courtesy, reticence, and an almost inhuman tranquility, which made him appear larger than life. In reality, Dieudonné de Bourbon the man was only five-five, just an inch taller than Jeanne herself. His vast selection of wigs, worn in lieu of his own hair for the last ten years, added inches to his stature. His deep-set, heavy-lidded, dark eyes carried the secrets of the universe within their depths. The full-lipped mouth topped with the tightly manicured, curving mustache showed the devilishly playful side of the Sun King.

Louis had changed little in the seven years since Jeanne had last seen him; while slightly rounder at the middle, he still projected the bearing of greatness, perhaps more than ever in the midst of his magnificent palace. The long, dark curls of Louis' periwig flowed over his coat of dove-gray silk, one boasting thick, silver-embroidered buttonholes running all the way down the full skirt of his jacket. Inches and inches of Venetian lace flowed from cuffs and collar. Scarlet, tightly fitting trunk hose matched the deep red heels of his diamond-buckled leather shoes and the deep red of the many plumes of his dove-gray felt hat.

Jeanne stood on the outskirts of the entourage, grateful Louis had not noticed her. The moment when she must face him would come, but she did not wish it to be today. The King knew her well; as a small child, she had spent many hours playing in the royal nursery with the Dauphin, the King's son and heir. But it was the child Louis would remember; Jeanne knew not what he would think of her, the woman, and despite herself, she cared deeply of his opinion.

The bevy of people began to rustle, anxious to be off on one of the King's walks; they jostled and pushed in their eagerness. Off to one side of the King stood a ravishing blond woman, resplendent in violet satin and lace.

“Pray, Lynette, who is that woman?” Jeanne used her gaze to point.

Lynette rose up on tiptoes to see around the piled-high hair and towering hats obstructing her view. A distinctive light sparked in her soft blue eyes.

“Why, my dear, that is Athénaïs herself.”

Jeanne's mouth formed a small but perfect circle, surprised and delighted to finally see the woman. Athénaïs, the Marquise de Montespan, was the King's powerful, titular mistress, famous for her beauty and sophistication. In the full sun of midmorning, Athénaïs glowed. Her radiant and abundant blond hair, the shimmering cerulean eyes, and the perfect pink mouth, like the opening of a rose, sat supremely above the slim but curvaceous figure.

“She looks so young,” Jeanne whispered for her friends' ears only. At forty-one, the marquise was only three years younger than the King.

“Evil never ages.” Olympe smiled, staring at Athénaïs.

“Evil?” Jeanne's brows rose high on her forehead, creasing the soft, pliable skin.

“Not now,” Lynette hissed to her friends, moving to stand between them like a mother separating her wayward children.

Françoise-Athénaïs Rochechouart de Mortemart was not the first mistress to warm the King's bed. The French people had long come to accept the King's behavior; he had married for the political health of their country. He deserved to find satisfaction wherever he could. His subjects could not begrudge him whatever joy he might find, even if it was in the arms of a mistress or two.