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

new rank. I’d no money for replacing them, of course, nor could I conceive of the cost of so much splendor here in the shops of Paris. I would simply have to hold my head high and rely upon the beauty that God had given me, not the labors of some mere seamstress. In a world that was ruled by pretense, I’d simply pretend that I didn’t care that my gowns and jewels were so inferior, and plan for the day when my fortunes would rise, and I’d be the most gloriously attired of them all.
    For now I wore my blue silk, with my grandmother’s small gold crucifix around my throat. The lady’s maid who served all the maids of honor had arranged my hair in the same style as the others, with elaborate curls bunched high on either side of my forehead and trailing down to my shoulders. Thin wires were cunningly threaded through the bases of the curls to hold them aloft, and though the unfamiliar weight felt strangely unbalanced on my head, I found the effect most elegant, and I was sure my hair had never looked so fine, nor so fashionable.
    There was no momentous event at Court that night, no ball or play to be debuted. Instead the entertainment was a troupe of traveling Florentines, acrobats and low comedians. According to the other ladies in the carriage, this was one of His Majesty’s favorite sorts of amusement on account of his grandmother having been an Italian princess, Marie de’Medici. There were others who’d spoken less kindly, who’d said that this Italian blood was also responsible for both the king’s ruthlessness and his swarthy complexion; but already I’d learned to be suspicious of gossip, and not to believe whatever I was told.
    Like a flock of gaudy chicks around their hen, we followed Madame into a large gallery with a row of four chairs and additional stools arranged at one end, before a makeshift space for the performers. Already the room was largely filled with courtiers and guests, all chattering with anticipation, and a small orchestra was playing lighthearted music, suitable to the coming players.
    With others bowing and curtsying in deference, Madame made her way to one of the chairs in the front of the room. To me, knowing what I did, she seemed quiet and subdued, her smile a forced imitation of merriment. She was beautifully dressed, as was to be expected, and any pallor or lingering mark from her husband’s blow had been expertly covered by powder and cerise. It grieved me to think that she could likewise hide her suffering, for it made me fear she’d had practice doing so. Monsieur had not joined her in her carriage from the Palais-Royal, and thus far he’d not joined her here, either. For her sake, I prayed he wouldn’t.
    “We stand back here, Louise,” Gabrielle whispered, prodding me into place behind the chairs and stools. “I hope your slippers don’t pinch, for we’re not to sit the entire night.”
    “Who gets the stools?” I asked, looking at them with perhaps more longing than was proper. The gilded stools were low and cushioned with tapestry-covered seats tipped by fat, dangling tassels.
    “You mean the taborets,” she whispered in return. “They’re only for the duchesses, just as the straight chairs are for those with royal blood—Madame and Monsieur—and the armchairs are for the king and queen. Everyone else must stand in His Majesty’s presence, unless he expressly gives his permission. Not that he will. He is a formal gentleman, and he likes everything ordered just so.”
    “Even to having us ladies stand like soldiers?”
    “Oh, His Majesty expects far more than that of us,” she said, holding her painted ivory fan before her face so others wouldn’t overhear. “I’ve been told that when he invites various ladies to join him in his carriage, he expects them to contain themselves entirely. He’ll not permit the horses stopped for anyone to use the privy or find other relief, and if a lady fails to oblige, or faints from the strain, why, then he falls into