the room and stood on tiptoe, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Don't be silly. I shall be happy to allow you to master me—as soon as we're alone in bed tonight." After kissing him sensually, she added, "In Paris."
* * *
Micheline's final task before leaving Fontainebleau was to meet with King Francois in the royal bedchamber so that she might make her farewells. Thomas was there to back her up, but Micheline needed little support. With newfound confidence she stated her case to the king, expressed her gratitude for his hospitality and friendship, and told him that she hoped he would wish her well.
Francois's hazel eyes clouded as he beheld Micheline's radiance. If only... he thought. It was bitterly ironic to him that a penniless English painter had managed to succeed where he had failed, but a part of him realized that Micheline could never have been happy as a mistress—even to the king of France. Of course, Francois thought that Selkirk was unworthy, but to point that out would only alienate her. She was clearly in the throes of romance—a condition that the king had learned was intense yet fleeting. He harbored a secret hope that she would come to her senses one day and return to the French court.
Summoning a regal smile, Francois murmured, "You deserve all the best in life, madame. My thanks to you for gracing my court." He pressed a lingering kiss to her hand. "I wish you joy."
Micheline was surprised to feel tears stinging her eyes. "I will never forget your kindness, sire, and I shall always remember my time here at Fontainebleau with great fondness."
She hurried off to the stables then, but St. Briac remained with his friend until she had disappeared from sight.
"I wouldn't worry about writing to Henry the Eighth just yet about this if I were you, sire," he advised. When Francois glanced over in surprise he added, "I mean... the outcome is still uncertain. Why not wait until I return from Paris and can make a full report."
Then Thomas took his leave and the king went to the window. Anne d'Heilly appeared, as if on cue, to console him, but as they watched the trio emerge from the stables and ride under the Porte Doree toward the forest, a satisfied smile curved her pretty mouth.
* * *
The day-long journey to Paris seemed endless to Micheline. The travelers rode northward over the broad King's Highway, which was paved and lined with majestic plane trees. During a midday pause at an auberge, where they rested the horses and partook of food, Micheline found that she couldn't swallow a bite. She was completely focused, body and soul, on reaching Andrew.
When at last Thomas, Aimée, and Micheline approached the walls and ramparts of Paris, the sky was violet. Soft, lacy snowflakes had begun to swirl down, dusting their hair.
"I'm so excited!" Micheline exclaimed. She sat up straighter on her horse, already aware of the energy of the city that lay beyond these three-hundred-year-old walls. "I've never been to Paris before!"
Aimée beamed at her friend, remembering her own first visit to the city.
"At least the smell isn't quite so repulsive at this time of year," St. Briac allowed.
Of course, a large portion of Micheline's excitement was nervousness. She didn't really care that much about Paris; it was thrilling to be here because Andrew was somewhere within the city's walls. The road from Orleans, which passed Fontainebleau for the king's convenience, entered Paris through the Porte St. Jacques. As Micheline rode through the gates, she imagined Andrew doing the same a few hours earlier.
They made slow progress up the rue St. Jacques, which was crowded with carts, livestock, and students from the university. The latter occupied much of the Left Bank, a maze of colleges, spires, convents, and lecture halls, with the attending hostels, taverns, open-air book stalls, and shops of those engaged in the academic trades. Micheline had never imagined houses and buildings crowded so closely together, or such a labyrinth of narrow lanes.
"There is the Sorbonne," Aimée told her, pointing. "It was Thomas's college."
Micheline stared through the dimming twilight and sprinkling snowflakes. She saw a massive Gothic structure, with towers flanking the high arch of the main door, and a steeple rising above. Beyond were the shapes of many more buildings, and the figures of students and officials rushing to and fro over snowy cobbled pathways.
"I have heard about the Sorbonne from my father," she told St. Briac. "He said it was