Late that winter, Petite did flower, at last, and was even courted by the bucktoothed son of a second steward. One of his letters was intercepted by her mother, and the budding courtship put to a halt, somewhat to Petite’s relief.
The spring was lush and warm; buttercups and forget-me-nots came early. Petite continued to ride daily, schooling the young horses, exercising them, training them for the hunts. Her mother objected, but Abbé Patin insisted; who else could gentle a horse so well? Petite still had her schoolwork and waited in attendance on the Princess as well. She managed it all by riding out into the dewy meadows at sunrise, revelling in the sounds of larks singing, jackdaws chattering, dragonflies and bees humming in the early light.
As the days lengthened, the princesses and their attendants became impatient to abandon their daily lessons, but it wasn’t until the first week in July that they got their wish. Petite was quizzing Nicole on basic Latin grammar in the Duke’s library when the panting footman arrived.
“It’s something about going to see the Duchess,” Nicole said under her breath.
“The princesses see their mother every day from eleven to eleven-twenty,” Madame de Raré, the governess, could be heard to object. “Taking them now will throw off the entire day’s schedule.”
“Her Highness insists,” the footman answered.
“Race you.” Princess Marguerite jumped up from the study table and took off at a run, chased by her two younger sisters.
“As well as their attendants,” the footman added, wiping the sweat from his brow with a grimy lace cuff.
The governess sighed and took up her silver-tipped cane. “Come along, girls. It’s one hundred fifty-seven steps to Her Highness’s bedchamber, and my old bones ache with every one of them.”
PETITE FOLLOWED THE governess and Nicole down to the courtyard and across to the stone stairs. It had been almost a year since she had been in the King François wing of the château. She recalled arriving her first day, remembered being overwhelmed by luxury, intimidated by royalty. Now she saw the shoddy economies, the extravagant waste—bottles stopped up with tow instead of cork, priceless tulip bulbs left to rot in standing water.
Indeed, she’d even come to suspect that the members of the royal family were not a race apart, that they were human like everyone else. Nobility was said to be innate, an intrinsic quality carried in the blood—but was it possible for it to become corrupted? Princess Marguerite and her sisters had the blood of Henry the Great in their veins, but also the blood of a Médicis.
Was it possible that nobility of heart had little to do with high birth? Petite wondered. Her father had not had a title, had not qualified for tax exemptions and civic privileges, had not been entitled to own a coach draped with an impériale, much less the right to wear high red-heeled shoes, but he did have “nobility of heart,” she thought, approaching the entrance to the Duchess’s suite.
“Are the princesses already in with their mother?” the governess asked the guard, leaning on her cane. “Ah, there they are,” she said as Princess Marguerite emerged from the guard room, sweaty and disheveled, followed by her two sisters. Princess Elisabeth’s laces had come loose and the lace edge of Princess Madeleine’s petticoat train was torn, dragging on the stone floor.
The governess wiped Princess Madeleine’s face with her apron, and gave the sign to the footman to open the doors to the Duchess’s bedchamber.
The enormous room was empty but for a bed at one end—much as Petite remembered it—although now the walls were covered with bright tapestries depicting scenes from the Bible: Jesus eating a roast guinea pig at the last supper, Jesus eating in the house of Lazarus, Jesus eating with sinners, Jesus eating fish with the disciples, Jesus multiplying loaves and fishes.
The Duchess was sitting up in bed eating a fowl, watched by her three terriers. The princesses dutifully lined up at the foot of the massive bed according to age: Marguerite, almost fourteen, Elisabeth, twelve, and Madeleine, ten.
“Time already?” the Duchess asked, throwing a bone into a porcelain bowl on the floor and holding out her fingers to be washed. “They’re early.”
“You sent for them, Your Highness,” the governess said. “As well as the attendants.”
“You remember, Your Highness?” a maid of honor said, spooning laudanum into a glass of spirits and handing it to the Duchess. “It’s because the King is coming. We discussed this earlier.”
The Duchess downed the spirits and lay back.
“The King?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” the maid said. “His Majesty intends to stop at Blois on his way south—something to do with making peace with Spain. It is said that His Majesty is ready to take a bride—”
Marguerite clapped her hands.
“The King of Spain’s daughter,” the maid of honor said.
Marguerite’s face turned red. “But I’m the one who is to marry the King. Everyone says so, even the astrologer.”
The Duchess wiped her mouth on the bed linen. “The astrologer is here?” she asked.
“Your Highness, permit me to explain,” the maid of honor said.
“I wish somebody would,” the Duchess said dreamily.
“Princess Marguerite, your mother believes that the King must be made to see that there is no reason for him to marry a Spanish princess when there is a perfect French princess for him right here.”
“Yes.” Marguerite sounded tearful.
“Therefore, it has been suggested that you put on a performance—you and your sisters and even your attendants. Something that will display your charms and convince His Majesty that you are the perfect bride for him.”
Petite glanced at Nicole in alarm. They were to perform for the King?
“It’s to be a magnificent show in which Princess Marguerite will star. It has already been discussed with Monsieur de Gautier, who will be your dance master. You have three weeks to prepare.”
“Why is the astrologer here?” Petite heard the Duchess ask as they bowed out of the room.
MONSIEUR DE GAUTIER, dance master, was over sixty, but fancied that nobody noticed. He watched his diet, not even glancing at the tarts the cooks made. He did fencing exercises every morning and sported a short doublet with his linen undershirt showing, the latest in the fashion. He could not bring himself to give up wearing fusty wigs, however, even sleeping in one. It protected him from vermin and drafts, but most of all it prevented him from viewing his bald cranium in the looking glass each morning. Demoralization was not youthful.
He was thrilled about the coming Royal Visitation. As dance master for the Duc d’Orléans, his talents were going to ruin. He aspired to join the Court of the King, who was only twenty and a splendid specimen of male virility. This would be Gautier’s chance to demonstrate his skill at set design and theatrical effects—not to mention dance sequences.
Well, perhaps not the dance part, he thought, facing the three hunchbacked princesses lined up before him, as well as the two attendants: Mademoiselle Nicole, a buxom gill-flirt, and the graceful but slightly lame one called Petite. He began with the basics, explaining that the walk employed the movements of the hip, the knee and, last but not least, the instep, and that from these three movements, all steps were formed.
He raised his cane as if it were a baton. “We begin.”
He gloomed as the princesses lurched across the floor. “Stop! Princess Marguerite, everyone, please, watch now as…” He gestured to the thin girl to come forward. “Demonstrate a walk, Mademoiselle.”
Petite’s skirts made a swishing sound as her leather-soled slippers slid across the wooden floor.
Monsieur de Gautier cleared his throat. Even with a slight limp, the girl walked with remarkable grace. Her stepping foot touched the ground first, her legs turned slightly outward. She moved neither too fast (which showed folly), nor too slow (indolence).
“Observe: her head is upright, her waist steady, her arms well managed,” he said, taking up a pochette to keep time
. “As her right foot advances, the left arm moves forward, but only slightly.” There was hope.
AFTER A BREAKFAST of beer and mutton, Petite was in the habit of meeting Nicole in a north stairwell, not far from the Princess’s chamber. The rarely used landing had a stone bench to sit on and a horn-paned window that could be closed against inclement weather. They had taken to meeting thus most mornings before reporting for duty, sharing confidences regarding their mistress as well as such vital matters as how to increase the size of one’s bust, what to do when the monthly courses came unexpectedly, and facts in general regarding the mysteries of the privy part: that redheads were the product of uncontrollable lust during the flowers, for example; that an owl hooting meant that someone was with child. But mostly, of late, they talked of Princess Marguerite’s great challenge.
“Marguerite can’t even make a curtsy without looking like a mule in a petticoat,” Nicole said. “She’s never going to capture the King this way.”
“Poor Marguerite,” Petite said sympathetically. She herself would never want to be queen, but it was different for a princess.
“She must conquer the King, and her only weapon is her bosom. Men like that, especially kings.”
Sadly, this was a fact. Petite herself remained stubbornly flatchested in spite of herbs and growing-chants.
“But the Duke insists that Princess Marguerite wear a tucker,” Nicole persisted. “If I were Marguerite, I would kill myself. Then maybe the King would fall in love with her.”
“But then she’d be dead,” Petite said.
A FLURRY OF preparation preceded the King’s arrival. The château swarmed with butlers, pageboys and maids hired specially for the grand occasion.
“I’ve observed the kitchen, the dairy, the food cupboard, the laundry,” the Marquis complained to Françoise, shuffling to and fro with his hands behind his back, “and in every region there is a crisis. In the antechamber, a damaged candle was fixed into a powder-horn. In the cabinet neuf, some idiot has used the extremity of the Duke’s ivory staff to awaken the embers, and in the salle de conseil, a magpie was unleashed. There are leavings everywhere!”
It was decided that the King, the Queen Mother and the rest of the royal family (including la Grande Mademoiselle) and their hundred and twenty-six attendants would stay at Chambord, the royal hunt château not far from Blois on the other side of the river. But then, of course, additional staff (including four rat-catchers) had to be found to ready that château. The four hundred unfurnished rooms were not a problem; the royal entourage would be arriving with its own beds, bed curtains, pillows and linens. But then it was decided, rather late, that the Duke and Duchess and their three daughters would formally greet the King upon his arrival there—and so the best coaches were repaired and harnessed, and an escort of fifty guards called up. The royal party departed, the Duke and Duchess in the lead, followed by Marguerite and her two sisters with Nicole in an ancient, but gilded, closed carriage. The servants, overseen by the Marquis and Madame Françoise, followed behind.
Petite, at Abbé Patin’s request, rode horseback on one of the younger stallions. Every horse in the stable had had to be saddled. For some, it would be their first journey across the bridge, their first journey away from the security of the stable, and Abbé Patin, as equerry, needed Petite’s help.
Petite’s horse, Arion, was a young bay hunter. He was uneasy crossing the mighty Loire, but relaxed into a trot once on the other side. It was only his third ride out in the world and he was keeping his head.
As they entered a flat and sandy region, the horizon opened. They rode by vineyards, scattered peasant cottages and orchards, the trees netted to protect the fruit from birds. Women in white caps and clunky sabots waved to them from the fields.
After over an hour, they passed through a gap in a stone wall—the modest gateway to the château—then down a long, straight avenue, the woods on either side a tangle of brush. At last, the enormous round towers of Chambord appeared as if out of nowhere, its numerous turrets, spires and chimneys giving it the appearance of a small city.
It was a monstrous structure, Petite couldn’t help but think as she rode across the wide, fetid moat into the courtyard, her horse shying at the shadow of a gargoyle falling across the stones.
Stable boys ran out to take the horses. Petite dismounted, stretched and shook out the wide-skirted safeguard that protected her skirts from mud.
The Duke helped the Duchess down out of the carriage. Her Highness had not been out of her chambers for two years and was under nerval strain, no doubt, for she slipped on a cobble and had to be carried into the château on a litter. The princesses followed, their voices echoing in the vast entry. Immediately, Elisabeth and Madeleine ran noisily up and down the famous double staircase—demonstrating how they could do so without meeting—until, finally, word was sent that they were to be silent or go outside.
The weather was sultry, damp and cloudy. The bored girls sat on the edge of the moat. All was perfectly still but for the buzzing of gnatlike insects, which began to swarm. Slapping at her cheeks, Princess Marguerite ran back into the château, but soon itchy red welts appeared all over her face and neck.
“The sweet itch,” Petite said. She knew it well in horses.
“I want to die,” Princess Marguerite said, spotting her gown with tears.
“Stop bawling.” Nicole slathered the Princess’s face with white lead paste.
“What is this infernal squalling?” the Marquis de Saint-Rémy demanded, entering the chamber with Abbé Patin. “Your Highness,” he said, on realizing that the offender was a princess.
“Princess Marguerite?” Abbé Patin looked horrified. The paste covering Marguerite’s face was now streaked with blood.
“Gnats,” Nicole explained.
“Send for my carriage,” Marguerite commanded, with a brave attempt at dignity.
“Yes, it would be wise for the Princess to return to Blois,” Petite suggested to her stepfather. She and Nicole would draw a cool lavender-scented bath for her, to calm her.
“But the King,” the Marquis stuttered. “He’s anticipated.”
“Exactly,” Nicole said.
The coaches had yet to be unharnessed, so they were able to set out quickly—the three princesses and Nicole in the six-horse coach, Abbé Patin and Petite on horseback, accompanied by an armed four-guard escort, two ahead and two behind.
The journey back did not seem to take as long as the one there. The horses, knowing that they were heading home, trotted briskly through the undulating hills and uplands lined with vine trees, the forests of oak, chestnut and walnut trees. A wind had picked up, pushing them along.
Petite was relieved, at last, to see the Blois docks on the other side of the Loire; soon they would be back at the château. The sun came out, briefly, lighting the bright houses at the water’s edge, their reflections rippled by wind on the water. Lupin seeds helped soothe itchy inflammations, she recalled. Lupins would not yet be in seed, but the Duke’s head gardener might have some saved from last year.
No sooner had they started over the bridge than the mast of a barge crashed into an arch. The stone bridge held steady, but the sound of splintering wood and the sudden appearance of the ship’s flag and rigging caused some of the horses to rear up. The princesses screamed. A guard’s horse whinnied, threw his rider and bolted.
“It’s Helios,” Petite called out to Abbé Patin. The colt was only four years old and subject to affrights. “He’s been cut.” She saw spots of blood on the cobbles.
“Oh, no—he’s heading back,” Abbé Patin said as the colt raced past him, reins flying.
Nicole stuck her head out the carriage window, wide-eyed. “What happened?”
“A barge didn’t get its sail down in time,” Abbé Patin said. “The horses are steady now, but I have to catch a runaway—Mademoiselle Petite is to come with me.”
“He’s taking the river road,” Petite said, her eyes on the spotted colt.
br /> With that, Abbé Patin turned, spurred his horse and took off, Petite doing her best to keep up (in spite of riding sidesaddle).
Nearing Saint-Dyé, they halted. The Abbé’s heavyset stallion, lathered and panting, pranced in place, tossing his head.
“The colt might have cut off here.” Abbé Patin pointed his whip at a dirt path through hay fields, half mown. “Or he might have gone on ahead, along the road.”
Petite examined the roadway for tracks, signs of blood. There were hoofprints everywhere. “Does the path lead to the castle?”
“It goes to one of the park gates. There’s a forester’s cottage there.”
Petite tried to imagine which way the panicked colt might have taken. He was unfamiliar with this terrain, and although scent was a strong compass, horses didn’t always take the shortest path. “He could have gone either way.”
“I’ll follow the road, and you take the path.”
Petite nodded, unsure. She was to ride out alone?
“Meet me back here,” he said, and burst off down the road, clots of soil flying.
Petite headed down the dirt track, trotting her horse on the grassed-over flat between the ruts. Not far on, she saw fresh hoofprints. She picked up a hand-canter, ducking under low-hanging tree branches. The wall surrounding the park was made of stone. A gate of peeled logs hung open. Just inside was a cottage with an antlered stag’s head over the door: the forester’s hut. A man emerged wearing a thick woolen shooting jacket in spite of the heat.
“Monsieur, one of the Duc d’Orléans’s horses got loose,” Petite said. “He’s likely heading to the château.” Over the treetops, she could just see the castle’s turrets and towers.
The man yawned, scratching his big belly. “I didn’t see it.”
Didn’t hear it even? “Was the gate open?”