“Mlle de la Croix,” he said sternly, “do you smell of tobacco?”
She rose. Mme Lucifer’s jibe at Yves tempted Marie-Josèphe to invite His Majesty to turn around and look behind the orange trees. But if Mme Lucifer had been so kind as to offer her the cigar, she would have smelled of tobacco, so she could not proclaim a perfect innocence.
“It is—it is a custom of Martinique,” she said, which was quite true.
“A pagan custom,” His Holiness said. “Adopted from wild Americans.” Marie-Josèphe was close enough to kiss his ring, but he did not offer her that honor.
“A nasty one, at best. I disapprove of smoking, especially by ladies,” Louis said. He sighed unhappily. “Even more than I disapprove of the fontanges, but what influence have I, at my own court? I see that you have brought one horrid custom from your homeland, and attached yourself to another horrid custom here in France.”
“I beg Your Majesty’s pardon,” she whispered, wilting beneath the disapproving gaze of the King.
His Majesty proceeded. But as he moved forward, he reached toward the trees with his walking stick and pushed the branches aside, revealing Mme Lucifer and Mlle d’Armagnac. Tendrils of cigar smoke wafted out to encircle His Majesty and His Holiness.
Mme Lucifer glared defiantly before dropping into a curtsy. His Majesty shook his head sadly, with fond disapproval, and continued into the music salon. His court streamed after him. Chartres, the embarrassed young husband, ignored his disgraced wife.
Marie-Josèphe wondered what His Majesty thought of her behavior, if he thought of her at all, if it pleased him that she had shielded his daughter, or angered him that she had tried to deceive him.
Madame Lucifer snarled a horrendous curse, flung the cigar stub to the shining parquet, and sucked her burned finger. Beneath the lit cigar, the floor sizzled. In a moment the wax would burn away; the cigar would singe the wood.
Count Lucien flicked the cigar into the air with his walking-stick and thrust it into the silver tub of an orange tree. His expression contained more amusement than annoyance. It escaped no one that Mme Lucifer might have spared herself the King’s silent scolding if she had thought as quickly as the Count de Chrétien. Despite their mother’s celebrated wit, the children of Athénaïs de Montespan and Louis XIV were seldom accused of excessive quickness of thinking.
As Lotte swept past, she drew Marie-Josèphe into the line of courtiers. She gave up concealing her laughter, chuckling with delight. Madame, with years more experience controlling her public reactions, gave one quick snort of amusement, then pressed her lips tight together.
“How quick you are!” Lotte exclaimed. “How brave!”
“I only told the truth,” Marie-Josèphe said.
Madame Lucifer, still sucking her burned finger, glared at her as she passed. If Marie-Josèphe hoped for gratitude, what she received was a frown of suspicion.
“But if I must be scolded for smoking,” Marie-Josèphe said softly to Lotte, “I would rather have smoked!”
“Madame would slap me pink if I dared smoke,” Lotte said. “And you too.”
“Even Madame may not slap me,” Marie-Josèphe said. “The nuns slapped me quite enough, Mademoiselle.”
8
The music began.
Under the direction of M. Coupillet, the chamber orchestra played a quiet prelude. The wonderful harpsichord and a lectern stood nearby.
His Majesty listened, never moving, even to ease his gouty foot on its feather cushion. He sat straight and proud in his armchair. Beside him, His Holiness maintained a serene presence that made him nearly a match for the King. Though he did not adorn himself with jewels or gold, his pure white robe glowed against a background of brilliant Cardinal red.
The King, Pope Innocent, and the king and queen of England sat in armchairs in the front row. Behind and beside him, His Majesty’s family sat in armless chairs. Duchesses and a few favored courtiers perched on ottomans. Count Lucien stood near the King, behind an empty ottoman. Marie-Josèphe had noticed that he never sat when he could stand, but that he did not walk if he could ride.
Yves stood with the younger courtiers, behind the grand dauphin, the legitimate grandsons, the princes of the blood, and the illegitimate duke. Chartres, defying custom, remained at Yves’ side.
Nervously waiting for the prelude to end, Marie-Josèphe stood behind Mademoiselle. The salon grew warm; Marie-Josèphe welcomed the heat. Lotte fanned herself with a delicate sandalwood fan. A drop of sweat ran from her temple down her flushed cheek. Marie-Josèphe drew out her handkerchief and delicately dabbed away the perspiration.
M. Coupillet ended the prelude with a grand flourish.
“Signor Scarlatti the younger,” said the master of ceremonies, “playing the harpsichord.”
Little Domenico Scarlatti, dressed in satin and ribbons and a perruke, walked stiffly to the harpsichord. He bowed elegantly to His Majesty. The audience rustled and murmured, remarking on the child’s youth and reputation.
“M. Antoine Galland,” said the master of ceremonies, “reading his translations of Arabian stories, made at the command of His Majesty.”
M. Galland was a skittish young man. He nearly forgot to bow; he nearly dropped his slender leatherbound book as he opened it onto the lectern. He caught it; candlelight sparkled from its jeweled decorations. M. Galland bowed again to His Majesty. At the King’s gracious nod, M. Coupillet brought the orchestra to attention. The musicians and the little boy played.
M. Galland read aloud, his voice whispery.
Marie-Josèphe hardly perceived the words of the story, though M. Galland’s translation was the centerpiece of His Majesty’s entertainment. Marie-Josèphe wished only to listen to her own imagination made real by Domenico, by M. Coupillet and the orchestra.
Her little song spun and danced with the candlelight. The notes painted a background of distant deserts and gardens, dangerous adventures, exotic scents and songs.
After years of music that played only within her mind, she immersed herself in the melody that flooded the court of the Sun King. Music could never sound as she imagined it, unless angels—or demons—performed it.
Perhaps I was right, she thought, and Démonico is angel, or demon.
Marie-Josèphe let her eyes close. She pretended she was alone. The rustle of silk and satin and velvet, the murmur of restless courtiers with aching feet, the whispers about her handsome brother, all vanished behind a melodic picture of a daring and erotic story from mysterious Arabia.
“ ‘Scheherazade, my wife,’ ” M. Galland said, his voice now confident and loud, “ ‘thou shalt live one more night,’ the Sultan proclaimed, ‘Thou shalt tell me one more story. Then thou shalt die, for I know the treachery of women.’ ”
The story and Marie-Josèphe’s song ended with Domenico’s flourish at the harpsichord.
Breathless, Marie-Josèphe opened her eyes. Her heart pounded. Elevated by the orchestra, by little Domenico’s performance, the piece was unimaginably wonderful.
M. Galland, Domenico, and Signor Scarlatti bowed to His Majesty. As they leaned into the silence, Marie-Josèphe fastened her attention on the King. She hoped for some sign from him, some indication of pleasure.
His Majesty applauded his musicians, his translator. His approval freed everyone to express their appreciation, or to feign it. Acclaim filled the Salon.
M. Coupillet presented Domenico, Signor Scarlatti, the other musicians. M. Galland bowed again.
Pope Innocent barely reacted. Marie-Josèphe wondered if such a holy man was permitted to take pleasure in any worldly entertainment.