Here were assembled a group of people, all elaborately dressed, all, like ourselves, waiting to catch the eyes of the King should he pass through that morning.
It was a long wait. I looked around the room at these people, all very serious, all intent on one thing, and some spirit of mischief within me wanted to laugh outright. I wanted to say, Why should we all stand here so humble, so servile and await the pleasure of one man? I don’t care if he is the Sun King; I don’t care if his wealth has built this palace. Why should I? For what purpose? I thought: I will take the matter up with Hessenfield tonight.
I knew what his answer would be. “We have to keep Louis’s goodwill. We could get nowhere without his help. We have to keep him willing to help put James on the throne.
Yes, that was a good enough reason. And these others, what did they want? Promotion of some sort. So it was after all ambition which prompted them to stand there, ready at any moment to kneel in adoration when the scintillating presence was before them.
I was aware of a woman watching me. She was an extremely handsome woman with masses of dark hair elaborately dressed. She wore a silver grey gown and pearls in her ears and about her neck. She was very elegant. I thought something about her face was familiar and wondered if I could possibly have met her somewhere before.
She half smiled at me. I returned the smile.
A few minutes later she had edged a little nearer to me. “It is weary waiting,” she said in a low voice speaking in English with a marked French accent.
“Yes,” I said.
“I have waited yesterday. He did not come. Let us hope he comes today.”
I said: “You speak English well.”
She lifted her shoulders. “My grandmother was English.”
Conversation was not considered to be in the best of taste. One spoke in whispers while one kept one’s eyes on that spot where the King might at any moment make his entry.
“You are Lady Hessenfield?” she murmured.
I nodded.
“You are doing such good work … such excellent work.”
“Thank you. I am afraid I do very little.”
“You support your husband. That is good.”
“May I ask your name?”
“Elisse de Partière. My husband was killed at Blenheim.”
“Oh … I am so sorry …”
Silence fell between us. All eyes were on the door, for at that moment there was a stir of excitement.
The great moment had come. The presence was about to shine upon us.
With what dignity he walked! Of course he was an old man now, but the splendour of his garments dazzled the eyes so that one did not notice the lined and wrinkled face beneath the luxuriant wig. The dark eyes were shrewd and alert. There was something about him which set him apart. Was it assurance? He was so confident that he was above all other men that he convinced them that he was.
He stopped here and there to exchange a brief word with one or two of the elect and so briefly covered them with the glory of the reflected sun.
Hessenfield stepped forward, holding my hand.
“Sire, may I present my wife.”
The dark eyes, alive among the wrinkles, were regarding me steadily. I flushed slightly and sank to the floor in the required obeisance. The eyes brightened. He smiled faintly. His eyes travelled from my face to my neck and bosom.
“Very pretty,” he said. “Congratulations, my lord.”
Then he passed on. It was triumph.
He had gone. The morning in the Oeil de Boeuf was at an end.
“What an honour,” said Hessenfield. “I might have known you would make your mark. It’s not often he sees a woman as pretty as you.”
“What of all the mistresses he has had?”
“Hush. He likes discretion. None of them had half your beauty. Praise the gods that he is an old man now working a quick passage to heaven.”
“Be careful. You may jeopardize your position.”
“You are right,” he whispered, pressing my arm. “Now you may go to court. The King has acknowledged you.”
There was a press of people walking in the gardens and Hessenfield said to me: “Let us go now. Our mission is accomplished. I want to get back to Paris as soon as possible.”
As we were about to step into our carriage a woman came up to us. I recognised her at once as the elegant Madame de Partière who had spoken to me in the Oeil de Boeuf. She was clearly in some distress.
“Madame … I wonder if you would help me. I must get to Paris without delay. Are you going back there now?”
“Yes,” I answered.
She said: “It is most unfortunate. The wheel of my carriage is broken.” She lifted her shoulders. “I do not understand … But my coachman tells me that it will take some hours to put right … even if he can get it done this day. I must return to Paris.” She looked very apologetic. “I was wondering if … if you would take me there with you.”
Hessenfield had come up. She explained to him. “I saw you in the Oeil de Boeuf. I noticed Madame … who would not notice Madame? I spoke to her … I could not restrain myself. Now … I am asking this favour of you. If you could let me travel with you to Paris.”
Madame de Partière’s eyes filled with tears. “It is such a relief to me,” she said.
So we travelled back to Paris with our new acquaintance. She had a house in the rue St. Antoine, and she was very unhappy at the moment.
I said to Hessenfield: “Her husband was killed at Blenheim.”
“Madame, my condolences,” said Hessenfield.
“You are too kind.” She turned away and wiped her eyes.
After a while she went on: “So kind … and so brave. I know that you came over here … exiles from your country … fighting for a cause. That is noble.”
“Madame,” said Hessenfield, “you speak such good English.”
“Oh, but there is the accent, eh … the intonation … It is amazing how the French can never truly master the English tongue.”
“Nor the English the French,” said I.
“There is always something to betray it,” said Hessenfield.
“My mother was English. Her people had been over here during the days of Cromwell. She was a little girl then but her family met my grandfather’s family. The two young people fell in love and married and after the Restoration she stayed in France. Their daughter, my mother, was taught English … by her mother and I was taught by my mother … That is why I have knowledge of your English. But I am afraid it is not always as good as it should be.”
“Are you living in Paris?”
“For the time. The death of my husband has … how do you say it? … stunned me. I am at this time a little uncertain.”
“Have you any children?”
She was silent and turned her head away.
“I have a son,” she said.
“And shall you live with him?”
“He is dead,” she said.
I said I was sorry and realised that we had been asking too many questions.
We talked then about Versailles and the wonders of the palace and the gardens, the groves and the waterfalls and the bronze statues.
Had we seen the basin of Apollo, she wanted to know, with the god represented in his chariot drawn by four horses and the water spouting from the fountains?
We had, we told her.
“How I should love to see one of the displays on water,” she said. “I have heard that that is like a visit to another world.”
“I have seen it,” said Hessenfield. “With the Venetian gondolas all decked out with flowers, it is quite fantastic, particularly at night, when there is a display of fireworks.”