Angelique Part 7. Versailles Chapter 8
Angelique - Part 7. Versailles Chapter 8 - Read online
ON THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JUNE 1666, the Marquise du
Plessis-Belliere set out for Versailles. She had no invitation, but, to make
up for it, she was endowed with a boldness second to none.
Her carriage, lined with green velvet inside and out, with gold braids and fringes, the body and wheels gilded all over, was drawn by two big, dappled horses.
Angelique was wearing a sage-green brocade dress with a big silver flower-design and, by way of jewellery, a magnificent necklace of several rows of pearls.
Her hair, dressed by Binet, was also adorned with pearls and with two
immaculate dainty feathers like a film of snow. Her face, very carefully made-up but without exaggeration, no longer showed a trace of the violence she had been subjected to a few days before. All that remained was a blue mark on her temple, which Ninon had concealed with a heart¬shaped taffeta patch. With another, smaller beauty spot at the comer of her lip, Angelique looked perfect. *
She put on her Vendome gloves, opened her hand-painted fan and, leaning out of the carriage-window, cried:
“To Versailles, coachman!”
Anxiety and joy made her so nervous that she had taken Javotte with her so as to be able to chat during the journey.
“We are going to Versailles, Javotte!” she kept repeating to the young girl, who sat facing her in a muslin bonnet and an embroidered apron.
“Oh! I’ve been there before, Madame. With the galley of Saint-Cloud, on a Sunday . . . to see the King at supper.”
“That’s not the same thing, Javotte. You cannot understand.”
The journey seemed interminable to her. The road was bad, deeply rutted by the procession of two thousand wagons which passed over it every day in both directions, transporting stones and plaster for the build¬ing of the palace.
“We shouldn’t have taken this road, Madame,” Javotte was saying, “but gone by way of Saint-Cloud.”
“No, that would have taken too long.”
Every few moments, Angelique put her head out of the window at the risk of destroying Binet’s artistic construction and getting herself splashed with mud.
“Hurry, coachman, for heaven’s sake! Your horses are like snails.” But she already saw looming on the horizon a high, rosy cliff flashing with sparks and which seemed to glisten with all the sunbeams of the spring morning.
“What is that, coachman?”
“That is Versailles, Madame.”
A line of newly-planted trees shaded the far end of the avenue. At the approaches to the first gate, Angelique’s carriage had to stop to give way to an equipage which was arriving at breakneck speed from the Saint- Cloud road. The red coach, drawn by six bays, was escorted by horse¬men. It was said that it was the Petit Monsieur. The carriage of Madame followed with six white horses.
Angelique ordered her carriage to drive in after them. She no longer believed in unlucky encounters, in evil spells. She was walking on air, enjoying a kind of immunity. A certainty, stronger than all fears, assured her that her hour of triumph was near.
She waited, however, until the hubbub caused by the arrival of those two great personages had subsided a little. Then she alighted from the carriage and proceeded towards the marble courtyard.
Flipot, in the du Plessis household livery—blue and jonquil—held the train of her mantle.
“Don’t wipe your nose on your sleeve,” she told him. “Don’t forget that we are at Versailles.”
“Yes, Marquise,” sighed the former ragamuffin from the Court of Miracles, as he looked all around him, gaping with admiration.
Versailles had not yet the crushing majesty which was conferred on it by the two white wings added on by Mansard towards the end of the reign of Louis XIV. It was a fairyland palace, rising on a slender knoll with its gay pink and poppy-red architecture, its wrought-iron balconies, its high, bright chimneys. The pinnacles, ridge ornaments, leads and chimney-pots of its roofs were entirely gilded with gold-foil, and sparkled like the jewels that adorn a precious casket. The new slate, according to whether its angles reflected light or shade, had a black velvety depth or the sparkle of silver, and the sharp outlines of the roofs seemed to melt into the azure of the sky.
There was a great bustle all around the chateau, for the multi-coloured liveries of the footmen and lackeys mingled with the dark smocks of the workmen who were coming and going with their wheelbarrows and tools. The singing noise of chisels hammering on stone answered the drums and fifes of a company of musketeers who were parading in the centre of the great court.
Angclique saw no familiar faces as she gazed around her. Finally she walked into the chateau through a door in the left wing, where there seemed to be much coming and going. A vast coloured marble staircase led her into a large room crammed with a throng of rather plainly- dressed people who looked at her with astonishment. She made inquiries and was told that she was in the Guards’ room. Every Monday, petitioners came here to hand in their requests or seek a reply to their preceding ones. At the back of the room, above the fire-place, a gold and silver-gilt ship represented the person of the King, but it was hoped that His Majesty would make a personal appearance, as he sometimes did.
Angclique, with her plumes and her page, felt out of place among these old troopers, these widows and orphans. She was about to withdraw when she noticed Madame Scarron. She flung her arms around her neck, delighted at last to meet a familiar face.
“I am looking for the Court,” she said, “my husband must be at the King’s levee and I want to join him.”
Madame Scarron, more impoverished and unassuming than ever, seemed ill-chosen at first sight to inform her of the courtiers’ whereabouts. But, after haunting for so long the royal ante-rooms in her quest for a pension, the young woman was actually better acquainted with the detailed time-table of the Court than the Court gazetteer Loret himself, whose task it was to record their doings hour by hour.
Very obligingly, Madame Scarron led Angelique to another door, which opened on to a kind of vast balcony, beyond which the gardens could be glimpsed.
“I believe the King’s levee is over,” she said. “He has just gone into his cabinet, where he will converse for a few moments with the Princesses of the blood. Afterwards he will go down into the gardens, unless he comes here first. In any case, the best course for you to take is to follow this open gallery. At the very end, on your right, you will find the ante-room which leads into the King’s cabinet. Everybody will be there at this hour. You will find your husband without difficulty.”
Angelique darted a glance at the long balcony, where she saw only some Swiss guards.
“I am dying of fear,” she said. “Won’t you come with me?”
“Oh! my dear, how could I?” Fran^oise stammered aghast, glancing with embarrassment at her shabby outfit.
Only then did Angelique realise the contrast between their dresses. “Why are you here as a petitioner? Have you still got money worries?” “More than ever, alas! The Queen Mother’s death resulted in my pension being suppressed. I’ve come in the hope of getting it restored. Monsieur d’Albret has promised me his support.”
“I do hope you’ll succeed. I am so very sorry. . . .”
Madame Scarron smiled very sweetly and stroked her cheek.
“You mustn’t be. It would be a pity. You look so happy! Besides, you deserve your happiness, my dear. I am delighted to see you looking so beautiful. The King is very sensitive to beauty. I have no doubt that he will be charmed by you.”
‘I am beginning to have my doubts,* thought Angelique, whose heart started to beat a wild tattoo. The magnificent setting of Versailles spurred her to carry her boldness to its limit. She was mad, of course. But never mind! She was not going to act like the runner who breaks down a few yards from his goal. . . .
Smiling at Madame Scarron, she plunged into the gallery, walking so fast that Flipot panted behind her. When she had got half-way, a group appeared at the other end. Even at that distance, Ang£lique had no trouble in distinguishing, walking in the centre of the courtiers, the majestic figure of the King.
His stature heightened by his red heels and his abundant wig, Louis XIV stood out from the others by his admirable bearing. Moreover, none knew better than he how to use those tall canes for which he had set the fashion, and which had hitherto been reserved for the old and disabled. He turned these canes into instruments of self-assurance, of beautiful postures and even, in his own case, of allurement.
So he advanced, leaning on his ebony cane with its gold pommel, ex-changing playful words with the two Princesses who were at his sides: Henriettc of England and the young Duchesse d’Enghien. Today the official favourite, Louise de La Valliere, did not take part in the promenade. The poor girl was becoming less and less decorative. On these beautiful mornings Versailles, bursting with all its splendours, seemed to stress the pallor and emaciation of Mademoiselle de La Valliere. It was as well that she stayed in her retreat, where the King would presently go to see her and inquire after her health.
The morning was really lovely and Versailles marvellous. But wasn’t that the goddess of spring herself who was coming towards the sovereign in the shape of an unknown woman? . . . The sunshine spread a halo around her, and her jewels were dripping down to her waist like pearls of dew. . . .
Angelique had realised immediately that if she turned back now, she would cover herself with ridicule. So she continued to advance, but ever more slowly, with that strange sensation of helplessness and fatality which one sometimes has in a dream. In the surrounding haze she no longer saw anyone but the King. She looked at him fixedly, as if drawn by a magnet. Had she wanted to drop her eyes, she could not have done it. She was now as close to him as she had once been in the gloomy room at the Louvre when she had faced up to him, and everything went blank for her except that terrible memory.
She was not even conscious of the spectacle she offered, alone in the middle of this sun-bathed gallery in her magnificent attire and her radiant, full-blown beauty.
Louis XTV had stopped, and so had the courtiers behind him. Lauzun, who had recognised Angelique, bit his lips and concealed himself behind the others, jubilantly. They were about to witness something surprising!
Very courteously, the King doffed his hat trimmed with fiery plumes. He was easily moved by the beauty of women, and the calm boldness with which this one was gazing at him with her emerald eyes, far from dis¬pleasing him, completely charmed him. Who was she? . . . How had he failed to notice her before? . . .
Meanwhile, obeying an unconscious reflex, Angelique dropped a deep curtsy. Now, half kneeling, she would have wished never to rise again. She straightened up, however, her eyes irresistibly drawn to the King’s face. Despite herself, she was gazing at him provocatively.
The King was astounded. There was something unusual in the attitude of this strange woman and also in the surprised silence of the courtiers. He glanced around him, his brow slightly knit.
Angelique thought she was going to swoon. Her hands began to tremble in the folds of her dress. She was drained of all strength, she was lost.
It was then that someone’s fingers took hers, gripped them so hard she could have screamed, and Philippe’s voice said very calmly:
“Sire, may Your Majesty grant me the honour of presenting to him my wife, the Marquise du Plcssis-Bclliere.”
“Your wife, Marquis?” said the King. “This is surprising news. I heard some mention of the matter, but was expecting that you would come to inform me of it yourself.”
“Sire, it had not seemed necessary to me to inform Your Majesty of such a trifle.”
“A trifle? A marriage! Take care, Marquis, lest Monsieur Bossuet hear you! . . . And these ladies! By Saint Louis, even after all the time I’ve known you, I still wonder at times what stuff you are made of. Do you know that your discretion towards me amounts almost to in¬solence? . .
“Sire, I am distressed that Your Majesty should thus interpret my silence. It was such an unimportant matter!”
“Be silent, sir. Your lack of feeling is beyond limit, and I shall not permit you to indulge in such vile speech before this charming person, your wife. Upon my word, you are just a hard-bitten soldier. Madame, what do you think of your husband?”
“I shall try to make do with him, Sire,” answered Angelique, who had recovered during this dialogue.
The King smiled.
“You are a sensible woman. And a most beautiful one, moreover. The two don’t always keep company! Marquis, I forgive you on account of your excellent choice . . . and her lovely eyes. Green eyes ... a rare colour which I have not often had an opportunity to admire. Women with green eyes are . . .”
He broke off, mused for a moment, while attentively scanning Angel- ique’s face. Then his smile faded, and the monarch’s whole figure seemed to become transfixed as if struck by lightning. Before the eyes of the courtiers, first perplexed then frightened, Louis XIV was growing pale. The phenomenon could not escape anyone, for the King had a ruddy complexion and his surgeon frequently had to bleed him. Now, how¬ever, within a few seconds, he became as white as his shirt-ruffle, although not a feature stirred in his face.
Angelique, distraught, looked at him again and defiantly, despite herself, as guilty children sometimes look at the person who will mete out punishment to them.
“Are you not a native of the south, Madame?” the King asked abruptly. “From Toulouse?”
“No, Sire, my wife is a native of Poitou,” Philippe said promptly. “Her father is the Baron de Sanc£ de Monteloup, whose estates are in the neighbourhood of Niort.”
“Oh! Sire, to confuse a Poitevine with a southern lady!” exclaimed Athenais de Montespan, bursting into her lovely laughter. “You, Sire!...”
The beautiful Ath&iais already felt firmly enough in favour not to shrink from an audacious remark of this kind. It helped to dispel the embarrassment. The King recovered his natural colour. Always in control of himself, he cast an amused glance at Athenais.
“It is true that the ladies of Poitou have very great charm,” he sighed. “But take care, Madame, lest Monsieur de Montespan be obliged to compare himself with all the Gascons of Versailles. They might wish to avenge the insult to their women.”
“Is it an insult, Sire? If so, it is quite unintentional. I only meant that though the charms of both races are alike in quality, they are not likely to be confused. May Your Majesty pardon my humble remark.”
The smile in the big blue eyes was nothing less than contrite, but it was certainly irresistible.
“I have known Madame du Plessis for many years,” Madame de Montespan continued. “We were brought up together. Her family is related to mine. . . .”
Angelique promised herself never to forget her debt to Madame de Montespan. Whatever the motives which actuated the beautiful Athenais, she had none the less saved her friend.
The King bowed again, with an appeased smile, before Angelique du Plessis.
“Very well! . . . Versailles is happy to receive you, Madame. Be welcome.* *
In a lower tone, he added:
“We are glad to see you again.”
Angelique then understood that he had recognised her, but that he was accepting her and wanted to blot out the past.
For the last time, the fire of a stake seemed to flare up between them. Prostrated in a deep curtsy, the young woman felt a flood of tears swelling her eyelids.
Thank heaven, the King had resumed his walk. She was able to rise, furtively wipe her eyes and cast a somewhat constrained glance in Philippe’s direction.
“How can I thank you, Philippe? . . .”
“Thank me!” he gnashed under his breath, his jaw tense with anger. “Why, I was defending my name from ridicule and disgrace! . . . You are my wife, hang it! I beg you to remember it henceforward. ... To arrive at Versailles in this manner! Without an invitation! Without being presented! . . . And you were staring at the King with such insolence! . . . Will nothing ever crush your infernal cheek! I should have killed you the other night.”
“Oh, please, Philippe, don’t spoil this lovely day!”
In the wake of the other courtiers, they had arrived in the gardens. The blue shimmer of the sky merging with that of the playing fountains, the sparkle of the sunshine gleaming on the smooth surface of the great ponds of the first terrace, dazzled Angelique.
She thought she was walking in the midst of a paradise where all was light and orderly as in the Elysian Fields.
From the top of the steps which towered over a pond shaped like a rounded pyramid, she could see the pattern of the rows of tall trees surrounded by a garland of white marble statues. The flower-beds scattered their scintillating carpets over the park all the way to the horizon.
With her hands clasped before her lips in a gesture of childish fervour, Angelique remained motionless, gripped with an ecstasy in which the enthusiasm of her dreams mingled with genuine admiration.
A light breeze stirred the white feathers of her coiffure against her brow.
At the bottom of the flight of stairs, the King’s carriage had come to a halt. But just as he was about to step into it, he turned back and mounted the steps again. Angelique suddenly found him at her side. Уе was alone beside her, for, with an imperceptible gesture, he had motioned his entourage to keep at a distance.
“You arc admiring Versailles, Madame?” he asked.
Angelique dropped a curtsy and replied very gracefully:
“Sire, I thank Your Majesty for having placed so much beauty before the eyes of your subjects. History will owe you a debt of gratitude.”
Louis XIV remained silent for a moment.
“You are happy?” he asked at last.
Angelique turned her eyes away and, in the sun and the breeze, she suddenly felt younger, just like a young girl who had known no grief or anguish.
“How can one fail to be happy at Versailles?” she murmured.
“Don’t weep,any more, then,” said the King. “And give me the pleasure of accompanying me on my promenade. I want to show you the park.”
Angelique put her hand into that of Louis XIV. With him she descended the steps of the pond of Latone; the courtiers bowed as they
When she had sat down next to Atherfais de Montespan, facing the two Princesses and His Majesty, she caught a glimpse of her husband’s face.
Philippe was looking at her with an enigmatic expression which was not lacking in interest. Was he beginning to realise that he had married a real phenomenon?
Angelique could have floated, she felt so light. The future, to her eyes, was as blue as the horizon. She was saying to herself that her sons would never again know poverty. They would be brought up at the Academy of Mont-Pamasse and would become gendemen. Angelique herself would be one of the most feted women at Court.
And, since the King had expressed this wish, she would try to erase from her heart all traces of bitterness. Deep in her heart, Angelique knew that the flame of the love which had consumed her, that dreadful flame which had also consumed her love, would never die out. It would last all her life. The woman Voisin had said so.
But fate, which is not unjust, wanted Angelique to rest for a while on the enchanted knoll, in order to gather fresh strength in the intoxication of her success and the triumph of her beauty.
Later, she would return to the path of her adventurous life. But today she no longer had any fears. She was at Versailles!
Her carriage, lined with green velvet inside and out, with gold braids and fringes, the body and wheels gilded all over, was drawn by two big, dappled horses.
Angelique was wearing a sage-green brocade dress with a big silver flower-design and, by way of jewellery, a magnificent necklace of several rows of pearls.
Her hair, dressed by Binet, was also adorned with pearls and with two
immaculate dainty feathers like a film of snow. Her face, very carefully made-up but without exaggeration, no longer showed a trace of the violence she had been subjected to a few days before. All that remained was a blue mark on her temple, which Ninon had concealed with a heart¬shaped taffeta patch. With another, smaller beauty spot at the comer of her lip, Angelique looked perfect. *
She put on her Vendome gloves, opened her hand-painted fan and, leaning out of the carriage-window, cried:
“To Versailles, coachman!”
Anxiety and joy made her so nervous that she had taken Javotte with her so as to be able to chat during the journey.
“We are going to Versailles, Javotte!” she kept repeating to the young girl, who sat facing her in a muslin bonnet and an embroidered apron.
“Oh! I’ve been there before, Madame. With the galley of Saint-Cloud, on a Sunday . . . to see the King at supper.”
“That’s not the same thing, Javotte. You cannot understand.”
The journey seemed interminable to her. The road was bad, deeply rutted by the procession of two thousand wagons which passed over it every day in both directions, transporting stones and plaster for the build¬ing of the palace.
“We shouldn’t have taken this road, Madame,” Javotte was saying, “but gone by way of Saint-Cloud.”
“No, that would have taken too long.”
Every few moments, Angelique put her head out of the window at the risk of destroying Binet’s artistic construction and getting herself splashed with mud.
“Hurry, coachman, for heaven’s sake! Your horses are like snails.” But she already saw looming on the horizon a high, rosy cliff flashing with sparks and which seemed to glisten with all the sunbeams of the spring morning.
“What is that, coachman?”
“That is Versailles, Madame.”
A line of newly-planted trees shaded the far end of the avenue. At the approaches to the first gate, Angelique’s carriage had to stop to give way to an equipage which was arriving at breakneck speed from the Saint- Cloud road. The red coach, drawn by six bays, was escorted by horse¬men. It was said that it was the Petit Monsieur. The carriage of Madame followed with six white horses.
Angelique ordered her carriage to drive in after them. She no longer believed in unlucky encounters, in evil spells. She was walking on air, enjoying a kind of immunity. A certainty, stronger than all fears, assured her that her hour of triumph was near.
She waited, however, until the hubbub caused by the arrival of those two great personages had subsided a little. Then she alighted from the carriage and proceeded towards the marble courtyard.
Flipot, in the du Plessis household livery—blue and jonquil—held the train of her mantle.
“Don’t wipe your nose on your sleeve,” she told him. “Don’t forget that we are at Versailles.”
“Yes, Marquise,” sighed the former ragamuffin from the Court of Miracles, as he looked all around him, gaping with admiration.
Versailles had not yet the crushing majesty which was conferred on it by the two white wings added on by Mansard towards the end of the reign of Louis XIV. It was a fairyland palace, rising on a slender knoll with its gay pink and poppy-red architecture, its wrought-iron balconies, its high, bright chimneys. The pinnacles, ridge ornaments, leads and chimney-pots of its roofs were entirely gilded with gold-foil, and sparkled like the jewels that adorn a precious casket. The new slate, according to whether its angles reflected light or shade, had a black velvety depth or the sparkle of silver, and the sharp outlines of the roofs seemed to melt into the azure of the sky.
There was a great bustle all around the chateau, for the multi-coloured liveries of the footmen and lackeys mingled with the dark smocks of the workmen who were coming and going with their wheelbarrows and tools. The singing noise of chisels hammering on stone answered the drums and fifes of a company of musketeers who were parading in the centre of the great court.
Angclique saw no familiar faces as she gazed around her. Finally she walked into the chateau through a door in the left wing, where there seemed to be much coming and going. A vast coloured marble staircase led her into a large room crammed with a throng of rather plainly- dressed people who looked at her with astonishment. She made inquiries and was told that she was in the Guards’ room. Every Monday, petitioners came here to hand in their requests or seek a reply to their preceding ones. At the back of the room, above the fire-place, a gold and silver-gilt ship represented the person of the King, but it was hoped that His Majesty would make a personal appearance, as he sometimes did.
Angclique, with her plumes and her page, felt out of place among these old troopers, these widows and orphans. She was about to withdraw when she noticed Madame Scarron. She flung her arms around her neck, delighted at last to meet a familiar face.
“I am looking for the Court,” she said, “my husband must be at the King’s levee and I want to join him.”
Madame Scarron, more impoverished and unassuming than ever, seemed ill-chosen at first sight to inform her of the courtiers’ whereabouts. But, after haunting for so long the royal ante-rooms in her quest for a pension, the young woman was actually better acquainted with the detailed time-table of the Court than the Court gazetteer Loret himself, whose task it was to record their doings hour by hour.
Very obligingly, Madame Scarron led Angelique to another door, which opened on to a kind of vast balcony, beyond which the gardens could be glimpsed.
“I believe the King’s levee is over,” she said. “He has just gone into his cabinet, where he will converse for a few moments with the Princesses of the blood. Afterwards he will go down into the gardens, unless he comes here first. In any case, the best course for you to take is to follow this open gallery. At the very end, on your right, you will find the ante-room which leads into the King’s cabinet. Everybody will be there at this hour. You will find your husband without difficulty.”
Angelique darted a glance at the long balcony, where she saw only some Swiss guards.
“I am dying of fear,” she said. “Won’t you come with me?”
“Oh! my dear, how could I?” Fran^oise stammered aghast, glancing with embarrassment at her shabby outfit.
Only then did Angelique realise the contrast between their dresses. “Why are you here as a petitioner? Have you still got money worries?” “More than ever, alas! The Queen Mother’s death resulted in my pension being suppressed. I’ve come in the hope of getting it restored. Monsieur d’Albret has promised me his support.”
“I do hope you’ll succeed. I am so very sorry. . . .”
Madame Scarron smiled very sweetly and stroked her cheek.
“You mustn’t be. It would be a pity. You look so happy! Besides, you deserve your happiness, my dear. I am delighted to see you looking so beautiful. The King is very sensitive to beauty. I have no doubt that he will be charmed by you.”
‘I am beginning to have my doubts,* thought Angelique, whose heart started to beat a wild tattoo. The magnificent setting of Versailles spurred her to carry her boldness to its limit. She was mad, of course. But never mind! She was not going to act like the runner who breaks down a few yards from his goal. . . .
Smiling at Madame Scarron, she plunged into the gallery, walking so fast that Flipot panted behind her. When she had got half-way, a group appeared at the other end. Even at that distance, Ang£lique had no trouble in distinguishing, walking in the centre of the courtiers, the majestic figure of the King.
His stature heightened by his red heels and his abundant wig, Louis XIV stood out from the others by his admirable bearing. Moreover, none knew better than he how to use those tall canes for which he had set the fashion, and which had hitherto been reserved for the old and disabled. He turned these canes into instruments of self-assurance, of beautiful postures and even, in his own case, of allurement.
So he advanced, leaning on his ebony cane with its gold pommel, ex-changing playful words with the two Princesses who were at his sides: Henriettc of England and the young Duchesse d’Enghien. Today the official favourite, Louise de La Valliere, did not take part in the promenade. The poor girl was becoming less and less decorative. On these beautiful mornings Versailles, bursting with all its splendours, seemed to stress the pallor and emaciation of Mademoiselle de La Valliere. It was as well that she stayed in her retreat, where the King would presently go to see her and inquire after her health.
The morning was really lovely and Versailles marvellous. But wasn’t that the goddess of spring herself who was coming towards the sovereign in the shape of an unknown woman? . . . The sunshine spread a halo around her, and her jewels were dripping down to her waist like pearls of dew. . . .
Angelique had realised immediately that if she turned back now, she would cover herself with ridicule. So she continued to advance, but ever more slowly, with that strange sensation of helplessness and fatality which one sometimes has in a dream. In the surrounding haze she no longer saw anyone but the King. She looked at him fixedly, as if drawn by a magnet. Had she wanted to drop her eyes, she could not have done it. She was now as close to him as she had once been in the gloomy room at the Louvre when she had faced up to him, and everything went blank for her except that terrible memory.
She was not even conscious of the spectacle she offered, alone in the middle of this sun-bathed gallery in her magnificent attire and her radiant, full-blown beauty.
Louis XTV had stopped, and so had the courtiers behind him. Lauzun, who had recognised Angelique, bit his lips and concealed himself behind the others, jubilantly. They were about to witness something surprising!
Very courteously, the King doffed his hat trimmed with fiery plumes. He was easily moved by the beauty of women, and the calm boldness with which this one was gazing at him with her emerald eyes, far from dis¬pleasing him, completely charmed him. Who was she? . . . How had he failed to notice her before? . . .
Meanwhile, obeying an unconscious reflex, Angelique dropped a deep curtsy. Now, half kneeling, she would have wished never to rise again. She straightened up, however, her eyes irresistibly drawn to the King’s face. Despite herself, she was gazing at him provocatively.
The King was astounded. There was something unusual in the attitude of this strange woman and also in the surprised silence of the courtiers. He glanced around him, his brow slightly knit.
Angelique thought she was going to swoon. Her hands began to tremble in the folds of her dress. She was drained of all strength, she was lost.
It was then that someone’s fingers took hers, gripped them so hard she could have screamed, and Philippe’s voice said very calmly:
“Sire, may Your Majesty grant me the honour of presenting to him my wife, the Marquise du Plcssis-Bclliere.”
“Your wife, Marquis?” said the King. “This is surprising news. I heard some mention of the matter, but was expecting that you would come to inform me of it yourself.”
“Sire, it had not seemed necessary to me to inform Your Majesty of such a trifle.”
“A trifle? A marriage! Take care, Marquis, lest Monsieur Bossuet hear you! . . . And these ladies! By Saint Louis, even after all the time I’ve known you, I still wonder at times what stuff you are made of. Do you know that your discretion towards me amounts almost to in¬solence? . .
“Sire, I am distressed that Your Majesty should thus interpret my silence. It was such an unimportant matter!”
“Be silent, sir. Your lack of feeling is beyond limit, and I shall not permit you to indulge in such vile speech before this charming person, your wife. Upon my word, you are just a hard-bitten soldier. Madame, what do you think of your husband?”
“I shall try to make do with him, Sire,” answered Angelique, who had recovered during this dialogue.
The King smiled.
“You are a sensible woman. And a most beautiful one, moreover. The two don’t always keep company! Marquis, I forgive you on account of your excellent choice . . . and her lovely eyes. Green eyes ... a rare colour which I have not often had an opportunity to admire. Women with green eyes are . . .”
He broke off, mused for a moment, while attentively scanning Angel- ique’s face. Then his smile faded, and the monarch’s whole figure seemed to become transfixed as if struck by lightning. Before the eyes of the courtiers, first perplexed then frightened, Louis XIV was growing pale. The phenomenon could not escape anyone, for the King had a ruddy complexion and his surgeon frequently had to bleed him. Now, how¬ever, within a few seconds, he became as white as his shirt-ruffle, although not a feature stirred in his face.
Angelique, distraught, looked at him again and defiantly, despite herself, as guilty children sometimes look at the person who will mete out punishment to them.
“Are you not a native of the south, Madame?” the King asked abruptly. “From Toulouse?”
“No, Sire, my wife is a native of Poitou,” Philippe said promptly. “Her father is the Baron de Sanc£ de Monteloup, whose estates are in the neighbourhood of Niort.”
“Oh! Sire, to confuse a Poitevine with a southern lady!” exclaimed Athenais de Montespan, bursting into her lovely laughter. “You, Sire!...”
The beautiful Ath&iais already felt firmly enough in favour not to shrink from an audacious remark of this kind. It helped to dispel the embarrassment. The King recovered his natural colour. Always in control of himself, he cast an amused glance at Athenais.
“It is true that the ladies of Poitou have very great charm,” he sighed. “But take care, Madame, lest Monsieur de Montespan be obliged to compare himself with all the Gascons of Versailles. They might wish to avenge the insult to their women.”
“Is it an insult, Sire? If so, it is quite unintentional. I only meant that though the charms of both races are alike in quality, they are not likely to be confused. May Your Majesty pardon my humble remark.”
The smile in the big blue eyes was nothing less than contrite, but it was certainly irresistible.
“I have known Madame du Plessis for many years,” Madame de Montespan continued. “We were brought up together. Her family is related to mine. . . .”
Angelique promised herself never to forget her debt to Madame de Montespan. Whatever the motives which actuated the beautiful Athenais, she had none the less saved her friend.
The King bowed again, with an appeased smile, before Angelique du Plessis.
“Very well! . . . Versailles is happy to receive you, Madame. Be welcome.* *
In a lower tone, he added:
“We are glad to see you again.”
Angelique then understood that he had recognised her, but that he was accepting her and wanted to blot out the past.
For the last time, the fire of a stake seemed to flare up between them. Prostrated in a deep curtsy, the young woman felt a flood of tears swelling her eyelids.
Thank heaven, the King had resumed his walk. She was able to rise, furtively wipe her eyes and cast a somewhat constrained glance in Philippe’s direction.
“How can I thank you, Philippe? . . .”
“Thank me!” he gnashed under his breath, his jaw tense with anger. “Why, I was defending my name from ridicule and disgrace! . . . You are my wife, hang it! I beg you to remember it henceforward. ... To arrive at Versailles in this manner! Without an invitation! Without being presented! . . . And you were staring at the King with such insolence! . . . Will nothing ever crush your infernal cheek! I should have killed you the other night.”
“Oh, please, Philippe, don’t spoil this lovely day!”
In the wake of the other courtiers, they had arrived in the gardens. The blue shimmer of the sky merging with that of the playing fountains, the sparkle of the sunshine gleaming on the smooth surface of the great ponds of the first terrace, dazzled Angelique.
She thought she was walking in the midst of a paradise where all was light and orderly as in the Elysian Fields.
From the top of the steps which towered over a pond shaped like a rounded pyramid, she could see the pattern of the rows of tall trees surrounded by a garland of white marble statues. The flower-beds scattered their scintillating carpets over the park all the way to the horizon.
With her hands clasped before her lips in a gesture of childish fervour, Angelique remained motionless, gripped with an ecstasy in which the enthusiasm of her dreams mingled with genuine admiration.
A light breeze stirred the white feathers of her coiffure against her brow.
At the bottom of the flight of stairs, the King’s carriage had come to a halt. But just as he was about to step into it, he turned back and mounted the steps again. Angelique suddenly found him at her side. Уе was alone beside her, for, with an imperceptible gesture, he had motioned his entourage to keep at a distance.
“You arc admiring Versailles, Madame?” he asked.
Angelique dropped a curtsy and replied very gracefully:
“Sire, I thank Your Majesty for having placed so much beauty before the eyes of your subjects. History will owe you a debt of gratitude.”
Louis XIV remained silent for a moment.
“You are happy?” he asked at last.
Angelique turned her eyes away and, in the sun and the breeze, she suddenly felt younger, just like a young girl who had known no grief or anguish.
“How can one fail to be happy at Versailles?” she murmured.
“Don’t weep,any more, then,” said the King. “And give me the pleasure of accompanying me on my promenade. I want to show you the park.”
Angelique put her hand into that of Louis XIV. With him she descended the steps of the pond of Latone; the courtiers bowed as they
When she had sat down next to Atherfais de Montespan, facing the two Princesses and His Majesty, she caught a glimpse of her husband’s face.
Philippe was looking at her with an enigmatic expression which was not lacking in interest. Was he beginning to realise that he had married a real phenomenon?
Angelique could have floated, she felt so light. The future, to her eyes, was as blue as the horizon. She was saying to herself that her sons would never again know poverty. They would be brought up at the Academy of Mont-Pamasse and would become gendemen. Angelique herself would be one of the most feted women at Court.
And, since the King had expressed this wish, she would try to erase from her heart all traces of bitterness. Deep in her heart, Angelique knew that the flame of the love which had consumed her, that dreadful flame which had also consumed her love, would never die out. It would last all her life. The woman Voisin had said so.
But fate, which is not unjust, wanted Angelique to rest for a while on the enchanted knoll, in order to gather fresh strength in the intoxication of her success and the triumph of her beauty.
Later, she would return to the path of her adventurous life. But today she no longer had any fears. She was at Versailles!