Zachi arched her neck and struck at the cobbles with her forefoot. The iron shoe rang on stone, filling the passageway with echoes.
“She wants to run,” Marie-Josèphe said.
“She wants to race. It’s bred in her blood. Tomorrow, or the next day, she may run—His Majesty invites you to join his hunt.”
“That would be wonderful!” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. “That is to say, His Majesty’s invitation honors me, and I accept with gratitude.”
After His Majesty’s awakening, while His Majesty was performing his devotions, Lucien spent an hour reading reports and petitions, then walked through the State Apartments.
Wax or paint or new gold leaf shone from every surface. The King’s sunburst glowed from doors and wall panels. Gold and yellow flowers decorated every candle-stand and table, continuing the theme of the flowers in the gardens. At dusk, servants would whisk away the flowers and replace them with branching candelabra and new tapers.
At Carrousel, the visiting monarchs would understand that France, Louis the Great, had lost nothing in magnificence or power, despite the wars.
Lucien entered the chamber given over to the construction of His Majesty’s Carrousel costume. The royal harness-makers busied themselves around a great stuffed warhorse.
His Majesty stood on a low platform, wearing only his shirt and his stockings. The royal tailor and the royal wigmaker and the royal shoemaker backed away from His Majesty, bowing, carrying his costume to their workbenches.
“M. de Chrétien, good day to you, a moment please,” His Majesty said. “My sons, my nephew, let me see you. And where is my brother?”
They hurried to him, Monseigneur the Grand Dauphin in the costume of an American, Maine in Persian dress, and Chartres robed as an Egyptian. The Persian and Egyptian costumes amused Lucien, for they looked like nothing he had ever seen in Persia or Egypt. Maine’s Persian coat was quite handsome; his turban of silver gauze set it off nicely. The velvet fabric copied the designs of a prayer rug. Like all his clothes, the coat disguised his twisted back; a lift in one shoe lengthened his short leg.
His Majesty might laugh, Lucien thought, but Mme de Maintenon would surely be horrified to know that her favorite stepson wears religious symbols of Islam.
He had no intention of informing her of the situation, and he hoped the few who might know the meaning would have the mother wit to hold their silence.
M. du Maine pivoted before his father, and bowed, theatrically touching his forehead and his heart. His Majesty nodded his approval.
Monsieur rushed into the room. Attendants bustled to strip him and costume him. Lorraine strolled in, perfectly composed, smoking a cigar. He bowed to His Majesty, joined Monsieur to watch the fitting, and put out the smoke just quickly enough to avoid any suspicion of insolence.
Chartres showed off his costume to his uncle. He wore a long robe of pleated linen, a girdle of silver and sapphires, a wide jeweled silver collar, and silver sandals. Cobra and vulture decorated his headdress.
His lovers will enjoy the robe, Lucien thought, as it is very near transparent.
“Very good, Chartres.”
Maine and Chartres, natural rivals, matched each other in magnificence. They might have been friends, Lucien thought, if they had been born to different families, if they were not kept suspicious of each other, if they were not always in doubt of their places.
Monseigneur turned uncomfortably before his father, in his leather shirt and leggings, and a breechclout of fur as thick as a codpiece. Gold fringe tied with feathers and beads hung nearly to the floor. He wore a fantastic headdress: a frame of bent reeds, painted gold, covered with pompoms, egret feathers, and bunches of lace.
The American fashion suited him badly; he possessed neither the figure to set off the style nor the dignity to present it. He was a decade older than Maine and fifteen years older than Chartres; his costume would have looked quite fine on either of them.
“Monseigneur’s costume misses something,” His Majesty said. The tailors clustered round, holding up drifts of lace, more gold fringe, a cape of iridescent feathers.
“Emeralds,” His Majesty said.
One of the apprentices whispered to the royal tailor.
“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” the royal tailor said, “but the wild Americans are not known to use emeralds.”
“Emeralds. Nothing better. Along the seams and the hems, and sewn into the fur. A string of emeralds set in yellow gold to tie around Monseigneur’s forehead.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the royal tailor said, with a ferocious glare at his apprentice.
“Will that meet with your approval, Monseigneur?” Neither His Majesty’s voice nor his expression showed any hint of amusement.
Mademoiselle Choin may approve the breechclout, Lucien thought, when she undresses Monseigneur and finds emeralds hidden in his fur. But Monseigneur le grand dauphin is anything but happy.
“Yes, Sire,” Monseigneur said.
“And my brother, how does your costume progress?”
Monsieur tottered forward.
“The shoemaker has put heels on the toes of my shoes, sir,” Monsieur said mournfully. “I fear they must be redone.”
“I have it on excellent authority that yours are true Japanese sandals,” His Majesty said. “Made in the traditional style.”
Monsieur hiked up the skirts of layers of embroidered and fancifully dyed kimono. Underneath them all, he wore wide white silk pantaloons. He stood on sandals like small wooden platforms, gilded, attached to his feet with gold leather straps and golden buckles.
“How am I to ride at Carrousel, in this footgear?” Monsieur said. “The robes are exquisite, do you not think so, sir? But the sandals—!”
Monsieur’s wigmaker appeared behind him, whisked off his perruke, and settled a new wig on his head. The hair was jet black, straight, and lacquered into a complex topknot. It left his neck and shoulders oddly bare.
“Your saddlemaker will solve the problem of the footgear, I have no doubt of it,” His Majesty said. “I agree, I commend you on the choice of your robes.”
Monsieur pulled aside the lapels of successive layers. “This one is embroidered with gold. This one is a weave of silver threads. And this one, true Oriental silk, the technique requires a year for each color.” Minuscule twisted spots of color formed a complex pattern on the silk of the under-robe. “The artisans who create them commit ritual suicide after completing one, for their eyes will no longer bear the task.”
“Indeed, is that true?”
“Why, sir, I have it on the best authority of my silk importer,” Monsieur said.
The wigmaker brought a mirror and held it for him. Monsieur turned this way and that, inspecting the lacquered wig. The armorer brought a long, recurved bow and an ivory quiver of wicked hunting arrows.
“This mirror is too small,” Monsieur said.
Servants carried in a full-length mirror.
“You are the very image of a Japanese warrior, dear brother,” His Majesty said.
“It misses something, sir,” Monsieur said. “I shall have no hat—are you certain the Japanese warriors wear no hat?—and my hair will be naked. It wants ornament, such as the golden pins.”
“Those are ladies’ ornaments,” His Majesty said.
His expression quizzical, Monsieur waited for an answer that applied to him.
“I have given them to my daughter. Your daughter-in-law.”
“She’s borrowed my jewels often enough,” Monsieur said. “And as often as not never returned them.”
“The hair ornaments are Chinese. You must not adulterate your costume.” His Majesty considered. “Japanese warriors are said to wear helmets. You shall have a helmet, of plumes and golden scales.”