manners the same. He must accommodate himself to being back at court.”
“Allow him a few moments to enjoy his triumph on the field of battle, Madame,” Monsieur said. “I doubt my brother the King will permit our son another command.”
“Then he’ll be safe,” Madame said.
“At the cost of his glory.”
“There’s not enough glory to go around, my friend.” Lorraine leaned toward Monsieur and laid his hand across the duke’s jeweled fingers. “Not enough for the King’s nephew. Not enough for the King’s brother. Only enough for the King.”
“That will be sufficient, sir!” Madame said. “You’re speaking of your sovereign!”
Lorraine leaned back. His arm, muscular beneath the sensual softness of his velvet coat, pressed against the point of Marie-Josèphe’s shoulder.
“You’ve said the same thing, Madame,” he said. “I believed it the only subject on which we concur.”
His Majesty’s natural son, the duke du Maine, glittering in rubies and gold lace, cavorted his black horse outside Monsieur’s carriage until Madame glared at him, snorted, and turned her back. The duke laughed at her and galloped toward the front of the procession.
“Waste of a good war horse,” Madame muttered, ignoring Lorraine. “What use has a mouse-dropping for a war horse?”
Monsieur and Lorraine caught each other’s gaze. Both men laughed.
Chartres’ horse leaped after Maine. The young princes were glorious. On horseback, they overcame their afflictions. Chartres’ wild eye gave him a rakish air; Maine’s lameness disappeared. Maine was so handsome that one hardly noticed his crooked spine. The King had declared him legitimate; only Madame still made note of his bastardy.
His Majesty’s legitimate grandsons raced past; the three little boys pounded their heels against the sides of their spotted ponies and tried to keep up with their illegitimate half-uncle Maine and their legitimate cousin Chartres.
“Stay in the shade, daughter,” Monsieur said to Lotte. “The sun will spoil your complexion.”
“But, sir—”
“And your expensive new dress,” Madame said.
“Yes, Monsieur. Yes, Madame.”
Marie-Josèphe, too, drew back from the sunlight. It would be a shame to ruin her new gown, the finest, by far, that she had ever worn. What did it matter if it was a cast-off of Lotte’s? She smoothed the yellow silk and arranged it to show more of the silver petticoat.
“And you, Mlle de la Croix,” Monsieur said. “You are nearly as dark as the Hurons. People will start calling you the little Indian girl, and Madame de Maintenon will demand the return of her nickname.”
Lorraine chuckled. Madame frowned.
“The old hag never would claim it,” Madame said. “She wants everyone to think she was born at Maintenon and has some right to the title of marquise!”
“Madame—” Marie-Josèphe thought to defend Mme de Maintenon. When Marie-Josèphe first came to France, straight from the convent school on Martinique, the marquise had been kind to her. Though Marie-Josèphe was too old, at twenty, to be a student at Mme de Maintenon’s school at Saint-Cyr, the marquise had given her a place teaching arithmetic to the younger girls. Like Marie-Josèphe, Mme de Maintenon had come to France from Martinique with nothing.
Mme de Maintenon often spoke of Martinique to the students, her protégées. She recounted the hardships she had endured in the New World. She reassured the impoverished high-born girls that if they were devout, and obedient, as she was, His Majesty would provide their dowries and they too could escape their circumstances.
Monsieur interrupted Marie-Josèphe. “Do you use the skin cream I gave you?” He peered at her over his pomander. His complexion was very fair. He whitened it further with powder, and accentuated his fairness with black beauty patches at his cheekbone and beside his mouth. “It’s the finest in the world—but it won’t work if you insist on staying out in the sun!”
“Papa, don’t be mean,” Lotte said. “Marie-Josèphe’s complexion is ever so much paler than when she arrived.”
“Thanks to my skin cream,” Monsieur said.
“Let her be,” Madame said. “There’s no shame in being a little leaf-rustler, as I was. As His Majesty says, no one at court enjoys the gardens anymore. Except me, and now Mlle de la Croix. What were you saying a moment ago?”
“It was nothing, Madame,” Marie-Josèphe said, grateful that Monsieur had interrupted her before she expressed her opinion of Mme de Maintenon. Expressing one’s opinion at court was a gamble, and speaking kindly of Mme de Maintenon in Madame’s presence was foolhardy.
“Whoa!” the coachman cried. The coach lurched to a halt. Marie-Josèphe slid forward, nearly falling from the seat. Her ankles touched the elegant long legs of the chevalier de Lorraine. Lorraine took