and porpoise with sauce. The torchlight seemed brighter than usual to Micheline, and once, when laughter seemed to come at her from every direction, she pushed back her plate, remembering the intimate evening she and Andrew had spent at the cottage in the woods.
"Are you meditating, madame?" Rabelais inquired.
Pastries shaped like swans and white and vermilion sugar plums were being served along with a sweet German wine. More wine was poured, and the rest of the company lapsed into quieter conversation. Micheline smiled at the erstwhile monk.
"In a way, I suppose I was. I often wonder why the things in life that give us the most pleasure are also the most complicated."
"Complicated by whom?"
"Other people, I suppose, and even by ourselves..."
"Madame, you are clearly intelligent. Let me tell you something that it has taken me most of my forty years to learn. There are all sorts of fools in this world. Don't be a fool yourself because you've allowed other people to exert pressure on your life. I've come to believe in freedom. We only have one life... and when it ends, we can only hope to go to the great perhaps. With that in mind, I've adopted a new motto."
Dancing bears and monkeys wearing hats and playing miniature harps were entertaining the court, but Micheline noticed none of this.
"Pray tell me, m'sieur, what is your motto?"
"Faye ce que vouldras." Rabelais grinned, finishing his wine. "Do as you please!"
* * *
By morning Micheline had taken ill. Aimée, who rushed to her bedside, watched in alarm as Micheline retched until she lay pale and exhausted. She could only pray that it was something her friend had eaten or a result of the strenuous festivities of the night before. There had been a great deal of toasting going on between Rabelais and Micheline.
Suzette, Aimée's maid, went to give Andrew the news, which he accepted skeptically. It seemed much more likely that Micheline merely wished to avoid him now that her presence was no longer necessary for the completion of the portrait.
Two more days passed. Sandhurst completed his painting and presented it to the king, who had been scarcely civil to him since he declined to remain at Fontainebleau at Francois's beck and call. The sight of the portrait did banish the monarch's ill temper, however, and he even called Anne d'Heilly in to view the masterpiece.
"Magnifique!" she exclaimed. "Why, Madame Tevoulere looks almost beautiful!"
"I should hope so, since she is more than that in life," said Sandhurst.
Sheathing her claws, Anne smiled at the Englishman. "Monsieur, have you been to visit our poor Micheline? She has been desperately ill."
"Has she? I heard that she was not well, but I wasn't certain if it was serious."
"Oh, mais oui! Madame de St. Briac has feared for her life!"
Sandhurst looked sharply toward the king. "And your physician? What has he to say?"
"It is a digestive malady. I hardly think that the lady is fit to receive male visitors."
Observing the way Francois glared at his mistress, Sandhurst felt suspicious again. It seemed highly likely that all of this was merely a ruse to keep him from Micheline—at her own request.
"I would not want to disrupt Madame's recovery," Sandhurst said evenly. "If she is better before I leave Fontainebleau, I will see her then."
"Leave?" cried Anne. "When are you leaving?"
"Before the week is out, my lady. I have pressing business in England this April."
Anne had hoped to have her own turn of solitary portrait sittings with the irresistible Englishman. Sighing, she murmured, "How sad for us. I do hope, though, that you won't be a stranger in the future."
Sandhurst glanced up, a smile playing over his mouth. "That remains to be seen, mademoiselle."
Chapter 17
March 30-31, 1533
Micheline was dreaming about Rabelais. His face, alternately whimsical, serious, and laughing, advanced and retreated, telling her over and over again, "You've only one life, and then comes the great perhaps. Do as you please... do as you please..."
She awoke covered with a sheen of perspiration, her eyes wide and alert.
"Aimée, I must see M'sieur Rabelais!"
"Cherie, you cannot! He left Fontainebleau two days ago." Aimée pressed a cool cloth to Micheline's brow. "Why on earth do you want to see him!"
"I hoped to seek his advice—about love," she whispered.
"What knowledge could Rabelais have on such a topic? The man's a monk!"
"Yes," Micheline agreed as her stomach began to gurgle in a familiar way, "but he seemed to know about all of life...."
Aimée watched as her friend turned her face away to stare out