“The fountain will have its naissance at the peak of my chapeau, providing a misty veil before my eyes.”
“But mademoiselle would get wet,” Sylvain ventured finally.
“Yes! You have grasped my point. My dress is gauze, as you can see. It’s very thin and becomes transparent when wet.” She smoothed her hands over her breasts and leaned toward her sister. “Do you not think it will prove alluring, Louise?”
Madame caressed her sister’s hands. “No man would be able to resist you, my dear sister.”
Mademoiselle laughed. Her voice was loud enough for the opera house. “I care for no man. Only a god can have me.”
The king took a few steps closer to the edge of the dais, the very plumes on his hat magnetized by the scene.
Across the room, the Comte de Tessé approached the fountain with the careful, considered step of a man trying to hide his advanced state of drunkenness. The comte waved his crystal cup under the blossom spouts, letting the champagne overflow the glass and foam over his hand. The cup slipped from his hand and shattered on the fountain’s base. The comte sputtered with laughter.
“Do you not think it would be the finest of chapeaux, monsieur? A feat worthy of a magician, would it not be?”
The comte was joined at the fountain by a pair of young officers, polished, pressed, and gleaming in their uniforms, and just as drunk as the comte but far less willing to hide it. One leaned over the fountain and tried to sip directly from a blossom spout.
“I think it would be a very worthy feat,” Madame said. “Monsieur, my sister posed you a question.”
The officers were now trying to clamber onto the fountain’s slippery base. The comte laughed helplessly.
“No,” said Sylvain.
Madame blinked. Her ladies gasped.
The officer grasped a blossom spout. It snapped off in his hand. His friend slipped on the fountain’s edge and fell into the basin. His gold scabbard clanged on the ice. Two women – their wives, perhaps – joined the comte to laugh at the young heroes.
“Excuse me, mesdames.”
Sylvain rushed back to the fountain. One snarl brought the two young officers to attention. They scrambled off the fountain, claimed their wives from the comte, and disappeared into the crowd.
The comte’s gaze was bleary. “Well done indeed, Monsieur de Guilherand. The palace is ablaze with compliments. But remember it is I who gave you this kingly idea in the first place. As a gentleman, you will ensure I receive due credit.”
“You can take half the credit when you bear half the expense,” Sylvain hissed. “I’ll send you the vintner’s bill. You’ll find the total appropriately kingly.”
The comte turned back to the fountain and refilled his cup, pretending to not hear. Sylvain plucked the cup from the comte’s hand and poured the contents into the basin.
“You’ve embarrassed yourself. Go and sober up.”
The comte pretended to spot a friend across the room and tottered away.
Sylvain examined the broken blossom. Its finely carved petals dripped in the overheated air. The broken branch gushed champagne like a wound. Had the little fish felt the assault on the fountain? Had it frightened her? He tried to see through the dark green ice, watching for movement within the reservoir.
“Perhaps we ask too much,” said Annette, “expecting soldiers to transform themselves into gentlemen and courtiers for the winter. Many men seem to manage it for more than a few hours at a time. One wonders why you can’t, Sylvain de Guilherand.”
She posed at the edge of the fountain, fan fluttering in annoyance.
“Perhaps because I am a beast?”
The reservoir ice was thick and dark. In bright sunlight, he might be able to see through it, but even with thousands of candles overhead and the hundreds of mirrors lining the gallery, the light was too dim. He should have left a peephole at the back of the fountain.
“I speak as a friend,” said Annette. “Madame is insulted. You have taken a serious misstep.”
“Madame has made her own misstep this evening and will forget about mine before morning.”
Annette’s fan drooped. “True. She has made a play to keep the king’s interest, but I fear she’ll lose his favor. Maîtresse en titre is an empty honor if your lover prefers another woman’s bed.”
“She’ll be naming something vile after her sister next,” said Sylvain.
Annette coughed. “You heard about Polish Mary, then?” Sylvain nodded. “It’s her way of insulting those she despises. It makes the king laugh.”
A shadow moved in the fountain’s base, a flicker of a limb against the green ice just for a moment. He should have given the little fish a way to signal him if she was in distress.
“I begin to perceive that my conversation is not engaging enough for you, monsieur.”
“I beg your pardon, madame.” Sylvain turned his back on the fountain. The little fish was fine. Nixies spent entire seasons under the ice of glacier lakes. It was her element. The fact that the champagne continued to flow was perfect evidence that she was not in distress. He was worrying for nothing. Offending Annette further would be a mistake.
He swept a deep bow. “More than your pardon, my dear madame. I beg your indulgence.”
“Indulgence, yes.” She looked over her shoulder at Madame and her sister. “We have all indulged ourselves too much this evening and will pay for it.”
He forced a knowing smile. “Perhaps the best practice is to let others indulge us. Although a wise and lovely woman once mentioned that most ladies prefer a long period of suspense first. It whets the appetite.”
The empty banter seemed to cheer her. Her dimples surfaced and she snapped her fan with renewed purpose.
“Would you join me in taking a survey of the room?” He offered his arm. “I don’t beg your company for myself alone but in a spirit of general charity. If all this indulgence will lead to a morning filled with regrets, at least we can offer the king’s guests a memory of true beauty. With you on the arm of a beast such as myself, the contrast will be striking.”
She glanced at Madame. “I was sent to scold you, not favor you with my company.”
“You can always say I forced you.”
She laughed and took his arm. He led her through a clot of courtiers toward the royal dais. The king had returned his attention to his most favored guests but displayed a shapely length of royal leg for the two sisters to admire.
“Much better, my dear Sylvain,” said Gérard as they approached. “I hate to see you brooding over that fountain. My wife strokes her great belly with the same anxious anticipation. You looked like a hen on an egg.”
Sylvain dropped his hand onto the pommel of his sword and glared. Gérard barked with laughter.
“Your friend the Marquis de la Châsse can’t manage civil conversation, either,” said Annette as they moved on.
“Gérard doesn’t need to make the effort. He was born into enough distinction that every trespass is forgiven.”
“You sound jealous, but it’s not quite accurate. His wealth and title do help, but he is accepted because everyone can see he is true to his nature.”
“And I am not?”
“A bald question. I will answer it two ways. First, observe that at this moment, you and I are walking arm in arm among every person in the world who matters. If that is not acceptance, I wonder how you define the word.”
“I am honored, madame.”
“Yes, you most certainly are, monsieur.”
“And your second answer?”
“You are not true to your nature, and it makes people uncomfortable. Everyone knows what to expect from a man like the Marquis de la Châsse, but one suspects that Sylvain de Guilherand would rather be somewhere else, doing something else. Heaven knows what.”