* * *
“Monsieur Colbert sends his greetings and asks me to accompany you and your family to your seats,” you said to my father, with a smile toward me that felt like a sunburst in my heart.
“How very kind,” Papa said. “May I present my wife, Marie, and my daughter, Juliette.” My brother, Georges, of course, was still too young to attend such an event with us.
You bowed again before us and introduced yourself, your eyes dancing with pleasure, and oh, René, how my heart leapt.
We were seated far down the table, nowhere near the king, but I didn’t mind. Especially not when you took the seat beside me. Soon the courses of food began to arrive: basted pheasant, calf’s liver, and oysters to start, followed by soups of every hue—chestnut and cream, bisque of shellfish, beef madrilene. After the soup came platters of whole fish on beds of smoked eels, then courses of glazed duck and hares stuffed with truffles.
“What do you think of the king’s table?” you asked me, as the plates were cleared and new ones set before us in preparation for the twelfth course. I shifted in my seat, my corset stays straining, though we were not yet to dessert.
“I have never seen so much fine food,” I said. We had always eaten well, but I had never sat through more than six courses before. We’d been at table for nearly two hours, and yet servants were now carrying in entire haunches of roast venison, studded with cloves of garlic.
You laughed, not in ridicule, but in agreement. “It is overwhelming, is it not? My first feast at the palace lasted nearly five hours—and I had filled up by the third course, not expecting another fifteen to come. I thought I would burst.”
“I’m near to bursting,” I admitted, realizing only after I’d spoken that my words might not befit a lady. I was glad Maman was seated on the other side of Papa where she could not hear.
“So, you have not always been here at the palace?” I asked, trying to move past my faux pas.
“My father sent me to work with Colbert three years ago, when I turned fifteen.”
“Three years?” I said, calculating quickly in my head. “That is when I first came to the palace too. When Monsieur Tavernier presented his hoard to the king.”
Your face lit with a smile. “I had only been here a few months then. Tavernier’s visit was so anticipated that Colbert let us all off our tasks so we might attend. I had been terribly homesick until then, and the spectacle was very welcome.”
“It was a spectacle,” I agreed.
You laughed again, an easy, unaffected laugh that made a lightness rise up inside me.
“In truth, I didn’t see a thing,” you said. “I wasn’t very tall then, and I was in the back of the crowd with some gentleman’s velvet cape flapping in my face. All I saw of Tavernier that day was the feather in his cap—a ridiculously long peacock feather—bobbing around above everyone’s head.”
“It wasn’t a cap, but a turban,” I said, smiling at the memory. As a child of thirteen, I had thought it very elegant, but in hearing his description, I could see how ridiculous it had been, a Frenchman dressed up like a raja when he was not even a gentleman.
“I saw plenty of his riches after that day, though,” you continued. “Colbert set me to the task of cataloging every stone for the crown’s records. It was dazzling at first, but by the time we finished, I didn’t care if I ever saw another diamond again. But I suppose you have seen far more than I.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “but I never tire of them.”
“I should think not. All I did with Tavernier’s hoard was count and weigh the raw stones. Your father turns those drab bits of rock into diamonds.”
“They are diamonds all along,” I reminded you, though I beamed with pride at your words. “His job is to find the beauty in them.”
You gave me a flirtatious glance, and under the table, your leg shifted to brush against mine. “Your father has a great talent for creating things of beauty.”
My cheeks flushed and my heart skipped a beat. I did not shift my leg away.
We talked on, speaking of Papa’s work and your work for Colbert while course after course continued to arrive. Conversations around us turned to philosophy and politics, but we were cocooned in our own small pleasures, our legs still touching, our hands brushing “accidentally” against each other as we reached for food or for our glasses. In no time at all, the evening slipped away, and the clock was striking midnight.
The king wiped his mustache on the corner of the tablecloth, slipped a boiled egg into his pocket for later, and turned away from the table. He spoke a few words into the ear of Monsieur Colbert, then offered his elbow to the queen, and they retired from the chamber. This brought an abrupt end to the long feast.
At a nod from Colbert, you scrambled to your feet. “It was a pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle,” you said with a small bow, before hurrying to your master.
I watched you go with disappointment, then followed Papa and Maman as we joined the stream of guests leaving the hall. But as we neared the door, we heard you calling to Papa. I blushed, thinking you were coming to declare your desire to court me, but when you reached us at last, you spoke in a formal tone, quite different from our light banter at the table.
“Monsieur Pitau, the king requires a word with you,” you said, not even glancing my way.
The hopes my family had shared before the feast, which I had forgotten in your company, returned to my heart. Perhaps a great honor would be bestowed on Papa after all.
Papa turned to us. “You may wait for me in the carriage,” he said, but you smiled at my mother and again at me.
“It is a cold night, and the carriage will not be comfortable. Many people attend the king’s toilette. Your family may come along.”
We were led to the king’s bedchamber, where Louis was making ready for bed before a crowd of observers, as if watching the king put on his nightshirt was the greatest entertainment Paris had to offer. The crowd hovered on one side of a gilded balustrade. On the other side sat the king, cushioned on red velvet, his feet upon a tasseled stool. Attendants, themselves of high noble rank, assisted him out of his jewels and lace, while others pulled back the brocade curtains and turned down the embroidered coverlet on the king’s massive bed. A few feet away, a dozen or more advisers stood at attention, having been summoned for a final question or task from the king. At least as many ladies and gentlemen hovered near the door in hushed reverence. They were there at the king’s invitation for the honor of watching. I watched too, though my stomach squirmed at the thought of all those eyes watching me prepare for bed.
“Monsieur Pitau,” the king called as we entered. He waved Papa forward to stand opposite him behind the balustrade. Maman and I held our position near the door.