from the evil humours of the outside air. He carried a silk handkerchief and a pomander. With the silk he brushed the dust from the velvet sleeves and gold lace of his coat; he held the clove-studded orange to his nose, perfuming away the odors of the street. As the coach neared the waterfront, the smell of rotting fish and drying seaweed rose, till Marie-Josèphe wished she too had brought a pomander.
The carriage shuddered and slowed. The driver shouted to the horses. Their iron shoes rang on the cobblestones. Townspeople poured into the street, thumping against the sides of the carriage, shouting, begging.
“Look, Mademoiselle de la Croix!” Lotte drew Marie-Josèphe forward so they could both see out the carriage window. Marie-Josèphe wanted to see everything; she wanted to remember forever every detail of the procession. On either side of the street, ragged people waved and cheered, cried “Long live the King!” and shouted “Give us bread!”
One rider moved undaunted through the crowd. Marie-Josèphe took him for a boy, a page on a pony, then noticed that he wore the justaucorps à brevet, the gold-embroidered blue coat reserved for the King’s most intimate associates. Realizing her mistake, she blushed with embarrassment.
The desperate townspeople clutched at the courtier, plucked at his gold lace, pulled at his horse’s saddle. Instead of whipping them away, he gave them the King’s alms. He handed coins to the nearer people, and flung coins to the people at the edges of the throng, the old women, the crippled men, the ragged children. The crowd formed a whirlpool around him, as powerful as the ocean, as filthy as the water in the harbor of le Havre.
“Who is that?” Marie-Josèphe asked.
“Lucien de Barenton,” Lotte said. “M. le comte de Chrétien. Don’t you know him?”
“I didn’t know—” She hesitated. It was not her place to comment on M. de Chrétien’s stature at court.
“He represented His Majesty in organizing my brother’s expedition, but I had no occasion to meet him.”
“He’s been away all summer,” Monsieur said. “But I see he’s kept his standing in my brother the King’s estimation.”
The carriage halted, hemmed in, jostled. Monsieur waved his handkerchief against the odors of sweating horses, sweating people, and dead fish. The guards shouted, trying to drive the people back.
“I shall have to have the carriage repainted after this,” Monsieur grumbled wearily. “And no doubt I’ll miss some of the gilt as well.”
“Louis le Grand puts himself too close to his subjects,” Lorraine said. “To comfort them with his glory.” He laughed. “Never mind, Chrétien will trample them with his war horse.”
M. de Chrétien could no more dominate a war horse than could I, Marie-Josèphe thought. Lorraine’s cheerful sarcasm amused and then embarrassed her.
She feared for the count de Chrétien, but no one else showed any worry. The other courtiers’ mounts descended from the chargers of the Crusades, but Count Lucien, as befitted him, rode a small, light dapple-grey.
“His horse is no bigger than a palfrey!” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. “The people might pull him down!”
“Don’t worry.” Lotte patted Marie-Josèphe’s arm, leaned close, and whispered, “Wait. Watch. M. de Chrétien will never let himself be unhorsed.”
Count Lucien tipped his plumed hat to the crowd. The people returned his courtesy with cheers and bows. His horse never halted, never allowed itself to be hemmed in. It pranced, arching its neck, snorting, waving its tail like a flag, moving between the people like a fish through water. In a moment Count Lucien was free. Followed by cheers, he rode down the street after the King. A line of musketeers parted the crowd again; Monsieur’s carriage and guards followed in Count Lucien’s wake.
A bright flock of young noblemen galloped past. Outside the window, Lotte’s brother Philippe, duke de Chartres, dragged his big bay horse to a stop and spurred it to rear, showing off its gilded harness. Chartres wore plumes and velvet and carried a jeweled sword. Just returned from the summer campaigns, he affected a thin mustache like the one His Majesty had worn as a youth.
Madame smiled at her son. Lotte waved to her brother. Chartres swept off his hat and bowed to them all from horseback, laughing. A scarf fluttered at his throat, tied loosely, the end tucked in a buttonhole.
“It’s so good to have Philippe home!” Lotte said. “Home and safe.”
“Dressed like a rake.” Madame spoke bluntly, and with a German accent, despite having come to France from the Palatinate more than twenty years before. She shook her head, sighing fondly. “No doubt with