“They will see you as the fine bud you are and know you will blossom into a lovely wife for a lucky gentleman’s son,” Maman said, smiling approvingly as the seamstress fitted me in rosy silk, creamy lace, and boning that rendered me nearly too stiff to move. “It’s never too soon to be seen.”
I had no objection to my mother’s schemes on my behalf, but I was still a child at heart. I wasn’t thinking about gentlemen’s sons, but of Tavernier’s stories of tigers and elephants, powerful rajas and golden palaces. I was eager, too, to see his rumored hoard. The diamond mines of India were said to produce miraculously colored stones the size of small dogs.
As we arrived at the palace, my heart fluttered like a caged bird, trapped in the stiff bodice of my gown. Maman and Papa walked in front, and baby Georges had been left at home with a nurse, so I was free to crane my neck to gawk at the glories of the palace without Maman’s reproach.
The Louvre offered every pleasure to the eye with its high marble columns, painted ceilings, and polished floors, but what I remember most was the light. The way it flowed in through the windows and transformed the very air into something glorious. The way it livened the gilded plaster scrollwork along the walls, brightened the king’s ancestors where they looked down with cool arrogance from a dozen portraits. Everything was grander and mightier in that golden light, as if light itself had been bent to the service of the king.
“Isn’t it gorgeous, Juliette!” said André, my father’s apprentice, who walked beside me. While I had been brought along to be seen by prospective husbands, André had come to assist Papa in evaluating Tavernier’s gems. André had only been with Papa for about a year, and I still knew more about diamonds than he did. Maman, however, insisted I be seen as an elegant young lady, and that meant refraining from menial work.
The king’s great audience chamber was already overcrowded and noisy when we entered, a crush of vibrant silks and rich damasks, a hundred voices clamoring in boast and gossip. I had felt proud and elegant to don the first properly grown-up gown I’d owned, but now, as I looked around at the real ladies of court, their hair wrapped in strands of pearls, their throats sparkling with gemstones, their cunning use of powder, rouge, and lace leading the eye downward toward the treasures barely concealed by plunging necklines, I felt like a plain child of the streets. I shifted closer to Papa and slid my hand into his.
“Juliette, mon petit bijou, you are not shy, are you?” he said.
I shook my head, but clutched his hand a little tighter. I tried a deep, steadying breath, but the air was thick with perfume and the musk of unwashed bodies and it made me a little dizzy.
He bent to speak into my ear. “These are the finest people in the world, ma chérie. There is nothing here to be afraid of!”
“Mais oui, Papa,” I said, and forced myself to let go of his hand.
Maman straightened the bow in my curls and smiled at me. “Nothing at all to fear, Juliette,” she repeated. “You look beautiful.”
A man in the uniform of the garde du corps, the king’s personal guard, approached us, and Papa turned to him, all business.
“Monsieur Pitau, I am instructed to escort you to His Majesty,” the guard said.
Papa nodded, and we made our way forward through the crowd, following the bobbing plume on the musketeer’s hat.
That was the first time I saw His Majesty Louis XIV up close. He was seated on his gilded chair on the dais at the head of the room, draped in flowing robes of blue and gold velvet. His red stockings were gartered with blue ribbons. His black curls tumbled around his shoulders, and a froth of Flemish lace adorned his throat. A massive gold sunburst set with the largest Mazarin diamond flashed upon his breast. At first, I was besotted by his genteel beauty, but when he turned his keen black eyes on my father I shrank back. It was like the sun breaking free from the clouds—a fierce, bright, cunning sun, filled with power. André felt it too, and our hands found each other of their own accord as we straightened to attention.
Papa swept into a deep bow, Maman dropping into an elegant curtsy beside him. André and I hurried to follow suit.
“Rise, Pitau,” the king commanded. “This shall, I hope, be a great day for both of us.” His lips curled at the prospect.
“God willing, Your Majesty,” Papa replied.
“I see you have brought your family to witness the spectacle of Monsieur Tavernier.”
“You were most gracious, Your Majesty, to extend the invitation to them. My apprentice, André, will assist me should the occasion require it,” Papa said.
The king glanced at André and Maman. Then his eyes raked my frame from head to toe. In a mere instant, the king’s gaze seemed to have stripped me naked, and my cheeks flamed.
“How old are you, Mademoiselle Pitau?” the king asked, a crinkle by his eyes betraying his amusement at my embarrassment.
“Thirteen, Your Majesty.” My voice came out in a tiny squeak.
“Thirteen,” the king mused. “A tender age.” He had been king for nine years by the time he was thirteen, but I said nothing.
“Juliette is eager to hear tales of the Orient, Your Majesty,” Papa said.
Louis looked back at me, grinning. “And tell me, would you like to travel to India, my little mouse?”
My cheeks flamed still hotter. I could feel the eyes of the court watching, enjoying this exchange. Maman’s eyes were on me too, demanding a ladylike reply. I swallowed again to steady my voice. “I should like to see its wonders, Your Majesty, but perhaps not its dangers.”
The king laughed. “You have raised a wise daughter, Monsieur Pitau.”
Papa beamed at me. “She is my little jewel,” he said.
“Your family may observe from over there, where your boy will be on hand should you require him,” the king said with a vague wave of his hand, as if he had suddenly grown bored with the conversation. “You are to stay here at my side, to advise me, Jean Pitau.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Papa said, bowing again.
Maman, André, and I moved to the side, Maman glowing with pride.
“You did well, Juliette,” she said when we were out of earshot of the king. “You caught the king’s eye, and I daresay that caught the eyes of the court.”
I smiled, glad to have pleased her, though my knees still trembled from the encounter. A moment later, however, my attention was turned from the king as a flutter went through the crowd. Monsieur Tavernier had arrived.
He approached, a spectacle to behold. A cloak of tiger skin trailed down his back, and a turban of patterned silk, embellished with a bright blue jewel and a nodding peacock feather, swathed his head. He wore curious, curling-toed slippers of red leather, stitched all around with iridescent threads. The man glowed with the spoils of adventure, and I admired every inch of him, at least until I glanced at Louis and saw his disapproval. It was folly to shine too brightly in the presence of the Sun King.