The French Mistress by Susan Holloway Scott Read Free Book Online Page A

or your lady’s maid?”
    She jerked her head from the bed, struggling to compose herself and sit upright once again.
    “What could be wrong, my dear?” she asked, trying to smile though the mark of her husband’s blow still stained her cheek.
    “I—I do not know, Madame,” I stammered with bewilderment, rising to curtsy beside the bed. “That is, forgive me, Madame.”
    She might have been able to be brave, but I could not. Suddenly my earlier tears returned, spilling from my eyes, and betraying all I’d seen. Her face crumpled as her misery swept over her, and to my surprise she took me into her arms and drew me close. Without a thought, I slipped my arms around her narrow back, holding her tightly with my head on her shoulder and hers pressed into mine. Twined together that way, we rocked from side to side and wept shamelessly, taking as much comfort from each other as we gave.
    Finally she pulled back and placed her hands on either side of my teary cheeks. She cradled my face between her palms with rare gentleness, yet also to keep me from looking away as she spoke.
    “What you have seen, mademoiselle,” she whispered urgently, her voice ravaged with emotion. “What you now know of my shame and my suffering: remember it well, I beg you, and if ever I come to grief, swear to tell all to my brother in England. Swear to it, mademoiselle!”
    I swallowed, and nodded, even though I quaked before the awful burden of such an oath.
    “I swear, Madame,” I said fervently. “You have my word.”
    I gave it without thinking, too, for she was my mistress, my princess, and because one did not refuse anyone of royal blood. But the consequences of my oath that would come later—Ah, it would be greater than either of us could ever guess.
     
     
    Though the Louvre, His Majesty’s palace, was within sight of the Palais-Royal, Madame and her attendants did not walk between the two, but instead rode the distance in great lumbering carriages. I was among the most noble folk now, and walking, it seemed, was beneath us, an ignominious resort of common people. But noble or not, there was still much petty bickering among us ladies as we climbed into the carriages, with endless concern over who sat beside the window to be admired by the world, and who was made to sit hidden inside, and whose skirts were being crushed and rumpled by another’s clumsiness.
    Being so new, I didn’t care, and gladly squeezed into the space I was given. I was to see His Majesty for the first time, and I’d ride in an oxcart if I must. Besides, after what I’d witnessed in Madame’s bedchamber, the foolish chatter around me was a relief, soothing in its lack of consequence.
    I was thankful, too, to be with so many others as we made our way through the halls and staircases of the Louvre. If I’d been impressed by the elegance of the Palais-Royal, then I was overwhelmed by the formal grandeur of the Louvre. His Majesty was famous for his insistence on perfection, both here and at his grand palace in the country at Versailles (likewise in a constant state of improvement). From the marble statues to the gilded frames on the life-sized pictures to the porcelain vases filled with flowers grown beyond their season in the royal hothouses: everything was exactly as it should be, and all of it designed to glorify the king.
    I soon saw that this magnificent display extended not just to the furnishing of the palace, but to the courtiers themselves. The halls were as crowded with folk as if for market day, and every gentleman and lady seemed to be determined to outdo their neighbor in regards to their dress, with more extravagant shows of lace and ribbons and costly silk embroidery than I’d ever imagined.
    However snide Gabrielle’s dismissal of my new wardrobe might have been, there had also been a large measure of truth to her criticism. The gowns that had seemed so fashionable in Keroualle were far too plain in this company, and hardly suitable for my